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.

serve → servant

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;