All is whole; Not one word more of the consumed time. Let’s take the instant by the forward top; For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time Steals ere we can effect them. William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)

All is whole; Not one word more of the consumed time. Let’s take the instant by the forward top; For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time Steals ere we can effect them. William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
I am not a day of season, For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail In me at once: but to the brightest beams Distracted clouds give way; so stand thou forth; The time is fair again. William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
Wherein have you played the knave with fortune, that she should scratch you, who of herself is a good lady, and would not have knaves thrive long under her? William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
All’s well that ends well yet, Though time seem so adverse and means unfit. William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherished by our virtues. William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our losses, and how mightily some other times we drown our gain in tears! William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
‘Tis not the many oaths that makes the truth, But the plain single vow that is vow’d true. William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
Strange is it that our bloods, Of colour, weight, and heat, pour’d all together, Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off In differences so mighty. William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
Inspired merit so by breath is barr’d: It is not so with Him that all things knows As ’tis with us that square our guess by shows; But most it is presumption in us when The help of heaven we count the act of men. William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
Oft expectation fails, and most oft there Where most it promises, and oft it hits Where hope is coldest and despair most fits. William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)