To tomorrow, to tomorrow, and to tomorrow
Creepes in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last Syllable of Recorded time:
And all our yesterdays, haue lighted Fooles
The way to dusty death. Out, out breefe Candle,
Life's but a walking Shadow, a poore Player.
That struts and frets his houre vpon the Stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a Tale
Told by an Ideot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.