Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan.

For all the compasses in the world, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure.

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

Our life's a moment and less than a moment, but even this mite nature has mockingly humored with some appearance of a longer span.

Mortality has its compensations: one is that all evils are transitory, another that better times may come.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

Our brains are seventy-year clocks. The Angel of Life winds them up once for all, then closes the case, and gives the key into the hand of the Angel of the Resurrection.

Brief life is here our portion; Brief sorrow, short-lived care.

Treasure each other in the recognition that we do not know how long we shall have each other.

... life itself is brief, and that is what charges the day with such ridiculous beauty.

Such is the frailty of man that even where he makes the truest and most forcible impression-in the memory, in the heart of his beloved-, there also he must perish.

To venerate the simple days Which lead the seasons by, Needs but to remember That from you or I They may take the trifle Termed mortality!

The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.

What will die with me when I die, what pathetic or fragile form will the world lose?

Let us eat and drink; for tomorrow we shall die.

All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field.

To live, to have so much ambition, to suffer, to cry, to fight and, at the end, forgetfulness ... as if I had never existed.

Most men eddy about Here and there-eat and drink, Chatter and love and hate, Gather and squander, are raised Aloft, are hurled in the dust, Striving blindly, achieving Nothing; and then they die- Perish;-and no one asks Who or what they have been.

One thing is certain and the rest is Lies; The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

Come, for the House of Hope is built on sand: bring wine, for the fabric of life is as weak as the wind.