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 bear a charmed life.
I ‘gin to be aweary of the sun, and wish the estate o’ the world were now undone.
