So quick bright things come into confusion
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.
But either it was different in blood---
O cross! Too high to be enthralled to low.
Or else misgraffed in respect of years---
O spite! Too old to be engaged to young.
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends--
O hell, to choose love by another's eyes!
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.