Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow- William Shakespeare, Macbeth, (V, v, 18-27)
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 dusted 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 take
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signidying nothing
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