Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creZzeps 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.
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