To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow…

— To-mor­row, and to-mor­row, and to-mor­row,
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.