Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?
Vice repeated is like the wandering wind, blows dust in others' eyes to spread itself.
Experience is by industry achieved, And perfected by the swift course of time.
Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.
Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.
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
Mean and mighty, rotting Together, have one dust.
But clay and clay differs in dignity, Whose dust is both alike.
You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover.
And give to dust that is a little gilt More laud than gilt o'er-dusted
Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off ... Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust.