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
