The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow We are such stuff as dreams are made of.

I had rather be a kitten and cry mew Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers.

Which means she to deceive, father or mother?

Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.

Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle!

O, call back yesterday, bid time return

We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villians by compulsion.