Wyrd is too vast, too complex for us to comprehend, for we are ourselves part of wyrd and cannot stand back to observe it as if it were a separate force.

Beethoven is probably turning in his grave at the way that rock group mangled his Ninth Symphony.

If thou dislike these sorrowful lines, then know, My muse with tears, not with conceits, did flow; And, as she my unabler quill did guide, Her briny tears did on the paper fall; If then unequal numbers be espied, Oh, Reader! do not that my errour call;

serve → servant