There Is Nothing Serious In Mortality

Nothing In His Life Became Him Like Leaving It.

Reflection Is The Business Of Man; A Sense Of His State Is His First Duty: But Who Remembereth Himself In Joy? Is It Not In Mercy Then That Sorrow Is Allotted Unto Us?

Examine Well Your Blood.

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.

Why, This Hath Not A Finger's Dignity.