O God, God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
Virtue doesn’t pay.
Nothing can come of nothing.
Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had lived a blessèd time; for from this instant there’s nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys. Renown and grace is dead, the wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees is left this vault to brag of.
As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.
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.
Revenge is very unsatisfactory.
One is left with the horrible feeling now that war settles nothing; that to win a war is as disastrous as to lose one!
Nought’s had, all’s spent, where our desire is got without content.
Like madness is the glory of this life, as this pomp shows to a little oil and root.
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.
If suicide is your idea of escape from trouble then it doesn’t very much matter what the trouble is.
