When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.
Life every man holds dear; but the dear man holds honor far more precious-dear than life.
You take my life when you do take the means whereby I live.
Let life be short; else shame will be too long.
And this our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing.
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one.
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.
