Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
There’s no art to find the mind’s construction in the face.
The sauce to meat is ceremony; meeting were bare without it.
The attempt and not the deed confounds us.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
Nought’s had, all’s spent, where our desire is got without content.
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.
Let every man be master of his time.
It will have blood; they say: blood will have blood.
If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then to me.
I ‘gin to be aweary of the sun, and wish th’ estate o’ th’ world were now undone.
