Out, out brief candle, life is but a walking shadow...a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.
Let us to it pellmell. If not to Heaven, then hand in hand to Hell.
But come what may, I do adore thee so That danger shall seem sport, and I will go!
For this relief, much thanks.
When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded, to decay; Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate— That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death which cannot choose But weep to have, that which it fears to lose.