Macbeth

False face must hide what the false heart doth know.

Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings.

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!

If chance will have me King, why, chance may crown me
Without my stir.