Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?

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.

Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service

Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him.

He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.

That which is now a horse, even with a thought The rack dislimms, and makes it indistinct As water is in water

But indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offenses as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.