For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.
The plants look up to heaven, from whence they have their nourishment.
Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
So wise so young, they say, do never live long.
What fates impose, that men must needs abide; it boots not to resist both wind and tide.
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.