Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.
The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.
Then happy I that love and am beloved, where I may not remove nor be removed.
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color.