I do desire we may be better strangers.

O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk.

That in the captains but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

What fates impose, that men must needs abide; it boots not to resist both wind and tide.

Let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them.

There's some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable.