All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.
When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.
The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.
Why what a king is this
To hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature.
I am not what I am.
There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.
Smile, and smile, and be a villain.