“To the last syllable of recorded time”
“a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more”.
“I am in blood Stepped in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o’er.”
“Thou marshell’st me the way that I was going”
“but A dagger of the mind, a false creation”
“My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man, that function Is smothered in surmise, and nothing is, But what is not.”
“If Chance will have me king, why, Chance may crown me, Without my stir.”
“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow”
“Out, out, brief candle!”