Time and the hour run through the roughest day.

We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.

Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.

Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, but gold that's put to use more gold begets.

Men have marble, women waxen, minds.

Alas, that love, so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof! *It’s sad. Love looks like a nice thing, but it’s actually very rough when you experience it.*

What is thy sentence then but speechless death.