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.