If it were done, when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.
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There’s no art
To find the mind’s construction in the face
viewWhat’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.
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.