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.

. . from this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done.

Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good, but graciously to know I am no better.

This fell sergeant, Death, Is strict in his arrest.

Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; For 'get you gone,' she doth not mean 'away.' Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.

Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.