Journeys end in lovers meeting.

Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.

Virtue's office never breaks men's troth.

The apparel oft proclaims the man.

Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.

Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But, either it was different in blood,- Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,- Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.

O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart."-Helena