Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear.

The world's mine oyster, which I with sword will open.

The cloud-capp'd towers,the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.

I am sure care's an enemy to life.

And so from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, and then, from hour to hour,we rot and rot; and thereby hangs a tale.