(from Macbeth, spoken by Macbeth)
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty face 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 is but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is head no more. It is tale
Told by ab idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
SOURCES: https://www.poetryfoundation.org
With respect.
