Let me not to the marriage of true minds
World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.
Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low.
If all the year were playing holidays; To sport would be as tedious as to work.