"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."