And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune, Omitted, all the voyage of their life, is bound in shallows and in miseries, On such a full sea are we now afloat, And we must take the current, when it serves, or lose our ventures.
To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.
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.
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players, Â they have their exits and their entrances Â and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life,
Is rounded with a sleep.
Trust a few,
Do wrong to none.
Love looks not with the eyes,
But with the mind;
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.