I Would Fain Die A

Every Cloud Engenders Not A Storm.

For I Am He Am Born To Tame You, Kate; And Bring You From A Wild Kate To A Kate Conformable As Other Household Kates.

I See A Woman May Be Made A Fool, If She Had Not A Spirit To Resist.

The Wound Of Peace Is Surety, Surety Secure.

Rumour Is A Pipe Blown By Surmises, Jealousies, Conjectures And Of So Easy And So Plain A Stop That The Blunt Monster With Uncounted Heads, The Still-discordant Wavering Multitude, Can Play Upon It.