We came into the world like brother and brother, And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another.

I had as lief have been myself alone.

The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.

Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*