Men at some time are masters of their fates; The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,114  But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
I give unto my wife my second best bed with the furniture.
Peace? I hate the word as I hate hell and all Montagues.
Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow.
We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone.
Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms. Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away.