You come most carefully upon your hour.

Grief makes one hour ten

Time and the hour run through the roughest day.

'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more 'twill be eleven; 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

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.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.