Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterday s have lighted fools
The way to dusty d**h. Out, out, brief candle.
Life's but a walking shadows, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Tody by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.