Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But, either it was different in blood,- Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,- Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.

Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful

Let them obey that knows not how to rule.

Just death, kind umpire of men's miseries.

I shall the effect of this good lesson keeps as watchman to my heart.

O polished perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.