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