Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
What is past is prologue.
For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.
Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more.