What a piece of work is man, How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty, In form and moving how express and admirable, In action how like an Angel, In apprehension how like a god, The beauty of the world, The paragon of animals. And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no, nor Woman neither;
web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.
O excellent! I love long life better than figs.
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe.And thereby hangs a tale.
Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin's fee.
And a man's life's no more than to say "One."
O gentlemen, the time of life is short!Still ending at the arrival of an hour.
Let life be short: else shame will be too long.
The sands are number'd that make up my life;Here must I stay, and here my life must end.
I cannot tell what you and other men In awe of such a thing as I myself.
This day I breathed first: time is come round,My life is run his compass.
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
Thy life's a miracle.
When we are born, we cry, that we are come To this great stage of fools.
Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,Never lacks power to dismiss itself.
That but this blowWe'ld jump the life to come.
Had I but died an hour before this chance, Is left this vault to brag of.
So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune,To mend, or be rid on't.
Out, out, brief candle!it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
I bear a charmed life.
Reason thus with life: That none but fools would keep.
Life is a shuttle.
Her father lov'd me; oft invited me;That I have pass'd.
It is silliness to live when to live is torment; and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.
Who will believe my verse in time to come, Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
O! if, I say, you look upon this verse, And mock you with me after I am gone.
The earth can have but earth, which is his due; And that is this, and this with thee remains.
This silence for my sin you did impute, Than both your poets can in praise devise.
But do thy worst to steal thyself away, Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey, So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.
O! for my sake do you with Fortune chide, Than public means which public manners breeds.
"I hate" she altered with an end, And saved my life, saying "not you".