We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
The iron tongue of Midnight hath told twelve lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outstep the coming morn as much as we this night over-watch'd.
A dream itself is but a shadow.
Past all shame, so past all truth.
Truth hath a quiet breast.
If all the year were playing holidays; To sport would be as tedious as to work.