O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, to drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears.

O, call back yesterday, bid time return

We, ignorant of ourselves, Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers Deny us for our good; so find we profit By losing of our prayers.

To sleep perchance to dream

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.

Comfort's in heaven, and we are on the earth

To sue to live, I find I seek to die; And, seeking death, find life: let it come on.