Shakespeare's Website
Tomorro,
and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to
day, to the last sylable 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.