Or Are You Like The Painting Of

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.

When The Sun Shines Let Foolish Gnats Make Sport, But Creep In Crannies When He Hides His Beams.

How Much Better Is It To Weep At Joy Than To Joy At Weeping?

Time And The Hour Run Through The Roughest Day.

Do All Men Kill The Things They Do Not Love?