There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous (Nay, let em be unmanly), yet are followed.
Truth will come to sight; murder cannot be hid long.
When love begins to sicken and decay it uses an enforced ceremony.
Cupid is a knavish lad, Thus to make poor females mad.
I am falser than vows made in wine.