The course of true love never did run smooth.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
Lord, what fools these mortals be!
If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear.
I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.
The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream
I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.
Though she be but little, she is fierce!
All is well that ends well
So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.
All's well that ends well.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity
But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
And yet,to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.
If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumbered here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: If you pardon, we will mend: And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call; So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends.
O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a vixen when she went to school; And though she be but little, she is fierce.
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.
or simply:
