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.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act v. Sc. 5.

Good to the heels the well-worn slipper feels

When the tired player shuffles off the buskin;

A page of Hood may do a fellow good

After a scolding from Carlyle or Ruskin.

Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894): How not to settle it.