Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

Til the last syllable of recorded time.

And all our yesterdays light fools the way to dusty death.

Out, out, brief candle, life is but a walking shadow,

A poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage

Then is heard no more.

It is a tale told by an idiot,

Full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.