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.