My way of life Is fall'n into the sear and yellow leaf.
I have lived long enough. My way of life is to fall into the sere, the yellow leaf, and that which should accompany old age, as honor, love, obedience, troops of friends I must not look to have.
You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
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.
Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
A little water clears us of this deed.
Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!
Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.
The instruments of darkness tell us truths.
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, / I must not look to have; but, in their stead, / Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, / Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not" (5.3.25-28).
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
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.
By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence
If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.
I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none
I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
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