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.

When you do dance, I wish you a wave o' the sea, that you might ever do nothing but that.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine, than my heart cool with mortifying groans.

When holy and devout religious men are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence; so sweet is zealous contemplation.

It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.

Cheerily to sea; the signs of war advance: No king of England, if not king of France

Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.