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