My charity is outrage, life my shame; And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!

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.

That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold; What hath quenched them hath given me fire.

I am not in the giving vein today.

The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy; his legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure.

If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then unto me.

Wooing, wedding, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque-pace: the first suit is hot and hasty like a Scotch jig--and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes repentance and with his bad legs falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave.