William Shakespeare

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,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 playerThat 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.

What cannot be eschewed must be embraced

Time's glory is to calm contending kings,To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light.

Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!

She's beautiful, and therefore to be woo'd;She is a woman, therefore to be won.

Now is the winter of our discontentMade glorious summer by this sun of York.

What's in a name? That which we call a rose,By any other name would smell as sweet.

The course of true love never did run smooth.

Men at some time are masters of their fates:The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Cowards die many times before their deaths;The valiant never taste of death but once.

To be or not to be, that is the question.

We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.