Sometimes, Less Is More.

Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, And Years, Pass'd Over To The End They Were Created, Would Bring White Hairs Unto A Quiet Grave. Ah, What A Life Were This!

O, What A Goodly Outside Falsehood Hath!

And I Will Make It Felony To Drink Small Beer.

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.

Promising Is The Very Air O' The Time; It Opens The Eyes Of Expectation.