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

“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.”

“Call me what instrume you will,though you can fret me,yet you cannot play upon me.”

“If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.”

“do you think I ameasier to be played on than a pipe? Call me whatinstrument you will, though you can fret me, yet youcannot play upon me.”

“And then he drew a dial from his poke,And looking with lack-lustre eye,Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock:Thus we may see', Quoth he, 'how the world wags:'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,And then from hour to hour we rot and rot.”

“When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.”