Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!

O father Abram, what these Christians are, Whose own hard dealing teaches them suspect The thoughts of others!

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.

Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.

The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; but not gone.

Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream

Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that's gone.