When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.
If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.
This fell sergeant, Death, Is strict in his arrest.
Sweet love! Sweet lines! Sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn
Comfort's in heaven, and we are on the earth
A contract of eternal bond of love, Confirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands, Arrested by the holy close of lips, Strength'ned by the interchangement of your rings, And all the ceremony of this compact Seal'd in my function, by my testimony.