She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.

For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give.

You have witchcraft in your lips, there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council; and they should sooner persuade Harry of England than a general petition of monarchs.

Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; the worst is death and death will have his day.

I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through the ashes of my chance.

DEMETRIUS Relent, sweet Hermia: and, Lysander, yield Thy crazed title to my certain right. LYSANDER You have her father's love, Demetrius; Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him.

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.