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.

Enough no more; Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

Look how the world's poor people are amazed at apparitions, signs and prodigies!

It easeth some, though none it ever cured, to think their dolour others have endured.

I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come" (Phebe)

An old black ram is tupping your white ewe

for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.