Macbeth!

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.