There's some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable.
Let's meet as little as we can
O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus.
Better conquest never canst thou make than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts against giddy, loose suggestions.