Slow Your Roll
Your wit’s too hot, it speeds too fast, ‘twill tire.
—Love’s Labour’s Lost,
Act II, Scene i

Your wit’s too hot, it speeds too fast, ‘twill tire.
—Love’s Labour’s Lost,
Act II, Scene i

At Christmas I no more desire a rose
Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled mirth;
But like of each thing that in season grows.
–Love’s Labour’s Lost,
Act I, Scene i

They have been at a great feast of languages,
and stolen the scraps.
–Love’s Labour’s Lost,
Act V, Scene i