To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
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.