As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks
Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.
Small to greater matters must give way.
On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily.
I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked.