They say miracles are past.
Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head?
But men are men; the best sometimes forget.
Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.
He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink; his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts. (Shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost, IV)
Be like you thought our love would last too long, if it were chain'd together