What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.
Death-counterfeiting sleep.
No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.
All the world's a stage.
The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily untie.
Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?