Love is the greatest of dreams, yet the worst of nightmares.

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

Discharge my followers; let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.

For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.

This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe, others must end.

These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.

There's nothing in this world can make me joy.