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,
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
There’s no art
To find the mind’s construction in the face
If it were done, when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.
What’s done cannot be undone.
She should have died hereafter- there would have been time for such a thing.
I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself, and falls on the other.