Our wills and fates do so contrary run.

Look, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east! Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tip-toe on the misty mountain-tops.

We must be brief when traitors brave the field.

Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!

Away, you mouldy rogue, away!

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.

O, had I but followed the arts!