The second Shakespeare play I ever did was Macbeth. It’s a tale of greed, overweening ambition and being brought low (hubris).
In Act 5 scene 5, as his future is dissolving in front of his eyes, and (spoilers!) his wife has killed herself, Macbeth observes
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.
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.
It’s not quite as rich a source of book titles as Yeats’ The Second Coming, but it isn’t far off, and it is perfect for my purposes/sensibility here, where I am trying to trace how all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to fiery death.