Our wills and fates do so contrary run.
If there be devils, would I were a devil, To live and burn in everlasting fire, So I might have your company in hell, But to torment you with my bitter tongue!
His worst fault is, he's given to prayer; he is something peevish that way.
Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliances are relieved, Or not at all.
All that glitters is not gold.
It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.