The past is prologue.
For where is any author in the world Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye?
Who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down?
To sleep perchance to dream
The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.
Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET Into my grave.