Opus 3.14

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

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 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.

This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.