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.

He that dies pays all debts.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

But wherefore could not I pronounce 'Amen'? I had most need of blessing, and 'Amen' Stuck in my throat.

While we lie tumbling in the hay.

Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.

You have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser.