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:
O cross! too high to be enthrall’d to low!
Or else misgraffed in respect of years; —
O spite! Too old to be engag’d to young!
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends:
O hell! to chose by love another’s eye!
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness, did lay siege to it,
Making it momentary as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;
Brief as the lightning in the collied night
That in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say, Behold!
The jaws of darkness do devour it up:
So quick bright things come to confusion.
If then true lovers have been ever cross’d,
It stands as an edict in destiny:
Then let us teach our trial patience,
Because it is a customary cross; (sighs)
As due to love as thoughts, and dreams, and
Wishes, and tears, poor fancy’s followers.
— Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream