Idiotopia | |||||||||
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 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. |
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