To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,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.