William Shakespeare

Fair is foul, and foul is fair.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day.

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar.

How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.

Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York.

This above all: to thine own self be true.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

Love sought is good, but given unsought better.