Shakespeare's Website
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. 
