The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!

Men at some time are masters of their fates.

So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow's heavenly; it strikes where it doth love.

What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.

Look on beauty, and you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight; which therein works a miracle in Nature, making them lightest that wear most of it: so are those crisped snaky golden locks which make such wanton gambols with the wind upon supposed fairness, often known to be the dowry of a second head, the skull that bred them in the sepulchre.

Twas a clever quibble. Here, a garment for it.

I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.