Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty face from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterday have lighte fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but walking shadow, a poor player,
That's 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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