Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me
Truth will come to sight; murder cannot be hid long.
This we prescribe, though no physician; Deep malice makes too deep incision; Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed; Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.
Say, thou art mine; and ever, My love, as it begins, shall so persevere
We are such stuff that dreams are made of.
I have a bone to pick with Fate