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 foolsThe way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!Life's but a walking shadow, a poor playerThat struts and frets his hour upon the stageAnd then is heard no more. It is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and furySignifying nothing." — William Shakespeare, Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)
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