Your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.
Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be!
Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field, You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius! Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex: We cannot fight for love, as men ay do; We should be woo'd, and were not made to woo. I'll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well.
What's done cannot be undone.
Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence, or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting. Speak, I charge you.
Samp. 'Tis all one. I will show myself a tyrant. When I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids- I will cut off their heads. Greg. The heads of the maids? Samp. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads.
Men at some time are masters of their fates...
I, sir, am Dromio; command him away. I, sir, am Dromio; pray, let me stay.
Are you up to your destiny?