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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.

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For one thing we may be grateful: this life is not eternal.

A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.

All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow.

Nothing is easier than to admit in words the truth of the universal struggle for life, or more difficult, at least I have found it so, than constantly to bear this conclusion in mind.

Who knows if to live is to be dead, and to be dead, to live? And we really, it may be, are dead; in fact I once heard sages say that we are now dead, and the body is our tomb.

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.