“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace fromday 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, apoor 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 soundand fury, Signifying nothing.”
