All's well that ends well. . . .

Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own

My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives.

Our wills and fates do so contrary runThat our devices still are overthrown;Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.

Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is?

That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything