Inconstancy falls off ere it begins.
Sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will.
That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave, Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.
Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.
By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.