“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 foolsThe 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 taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing.”

“We strut and fret our hour upon the stage and then are no more.”

“Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

“I will go tell him of Hermia's flight:Then to the wood will he to-morrow nightPursue her; and for this intelligenceIf I have thanks, it is a dear expense:But herein mean I to enrich my pain, To have his sight thither and back again.”

“Tomorrow and tomorrow come creeping in and always will. We're fools trapped in a mechanism of our own unconscious making. Shadows strutting and fretting for one brief hour upon a stage, then heard no more. I'll weep an ocean in my heart, if the world would give me time. But not now.”

“Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops." Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.”

“Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out even to the edge of doom:If this be error and upon me proved,I never writ, nor no man ever loved”