Man is a torch borne in the wind; a dream But of a shadow, summ'd with all his substance. - George Chapman

Our hopes, I see, resemble much the sun,
That rising and declining cast large shadows;
But when his beams are dressed in's midday brightness,
Yields none at all: when they are farthest from
Success, their guilt reflection does display
The largest shows of events fair and prosperous.

As cedars beaten with continual storms,
So great men flourish; and do imitate
Unskilful statuaries, who suppose,
In forging a Colossus, if they make him
Straddle enough, strut, and look big, and gape,
Their work is goodly: so men merely great
In their affected gravity of voice,
Sourness of countenance, manners' cruelty,
Authority, wealth, and all the spawn of fortune,
Think they bear all the kingdom's worth before them,
Yet differ not from those colossic statues,
Which, with heroic forms without o'erspread,
Within are naught but mortar, flint and lead.

I am ashamed the law is such an ass.