All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts,
Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.
To climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.
Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.