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.