All things are ready, if our mind be so.
Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth
Like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks.
But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.
Discharge my followers; let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.
Sweet love! Sweet lines! Sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn