Azzy
|
Just because....
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.
;)
| Blade402 |
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Azzy
|
Just because....
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.
;)
For those of you that missed it:
T'-morrow, aye, and t'-morrow, and t'-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day t' day t' th' last syllable o' recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools th' way t' dusty death. Out, to be sure, out, brief candle! We'll keel-haul ye! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon th' stage and then is heard nay more: it is a tale told by an idiot, arrrr, full o' sound and fury, by Kikanuti's spur-galled pinky, signifying nothing. Pass the grog!
| cthulhu_waits |
For those of you that missed it:T'-morrow, aye, and t'-morrow, and t'-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day t' day t' th' last syllable o' recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools th' way t' dusty death. Out, to be sure, out, brief candle! We'll keel-haul ye! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon th' stage and then is heard nay more: it is a tale told by an idiot, arrrr, full o' sound and fury, by Kikanuti's spur-galled pinky, signifying nothing. Pass the grog!
You know, I laugh really hard every time I see that speech ending with "Pass the grog!" Why didn't The Bard think of that, I wonder?