Alas, that love, so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof! *It’s sad. Love looks like a nice thing, but it’s actually very rough when you experience it.*

And sleep, that sometime shuts up sorrow's eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company.

But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.

I love a ballad but even too well if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably.

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.

I have a bone to pick with Fate

The prince of darkness is a gentleman!