Shakespeare's Website
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this pretty pace from
day to day, to 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.