Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace form 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 upont the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.