I am that merry wanderer of the night.
Nothing 'gainst Times scythe can make defence.
And simple truth miscalled simplicity
The labor we delight in physics [cures] pain.
QUINCE Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. FLUTE Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE Flute, you must take Thisby on you. FLUTE What is Thisby? a wandering knight? QUINCE It is the lady that Pyramus must love. FLUTE Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming.
There are occasions and causes, why and wherefore in all things.