Journeys end in lovers meeting.
Muster your wits; stand in your own defence.
Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.
The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; but not gone.
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding they brav'ry in their rotten smoke?
Soft pity enters an iron gate.