| Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, | |
| Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, | (20) |
| 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 | (25) |
| And then is heard no more. It is a tale | |
| Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, | |
| Signifying nothing. |