Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
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.
Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said "I hate"
To me that languished for her sake;
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet,
Was used in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet:
"I hate" she altered with an end,
That followed it as gentle day,
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell - is flown away.
"I hate" from hate away she threw,
And saved my life, saying "not you."
Even as the sun with purple-colour’ d face
Had ta’ en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek’ d Adonis tried him to the chase;
Hunting he lov’ d, but love he laugh’ d to scorn;
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-fac’ d suitor ‘gins to woo him.
