One good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages.
William ShakespeareThe violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.
William ShakespeareOur revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.
William Shakespeare