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."