Making night hideous.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
God shall be my hope, my stay, my guide and lantern to my feet.
If she lives till doomsday, she'll burn a week longer than the whole world.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph.
That affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.