Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.
It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions.
Every man has business and desire, Such as it is.
Ay me! sad hours seem long.
You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!
I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquillity.