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 Who struts and frets his time upon the stage And then is heard no more. 'Tis but a tale told by an idiot Full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.