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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.
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Time is a very bankrupt and owes more than he's worth to season....
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Since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of torrid thunder Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never Remember to have heard.
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The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted.
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And this our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
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