Ay me, for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth.

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Asleep, my love? What, dead, my dove?

O me! you juggler, you canker-blossom! you thief of love;

Thy love! out, tawny Tartar, out! Out, loathed medicine! hatred potion, hence!