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.
Macbeth
Act 5 Scene 5
Words of Macbeth
