[2/3] Turn melancholy forth to funerals; the pale companion is not for our pomp. Hippolyta, I wooed thee with my sword, and won thy love doing thee injuries; but I will wed thee in another key, with pomp, with triumph, and with reveling. Now, my love, what say you to a night of dancing under the stars? The course of true love never did run smooth, but rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer's lease hath all too short a date.