Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.
Let every man be master of his time.
God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
Inconstancy falls off ere it begins.
Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.