the course of true love never did run smooth

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