To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 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. Out, out, brief candle! 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.

It is certain that either wise bearing or ignorant carriage is caught as men take diseases, one of another.

There is a time in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.

Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.

Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard.

Set your heart at rest. The fairyland buys not the child of me.

Why, thou deboshed fish thou...Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half a fish and half a monster?