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Tomorrow and tomorrow and tommorow
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Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
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To the last syllable of recorded time
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And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
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The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
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Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
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That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
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And then is heard no more. It is a tale
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Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
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Signifying nothing