"To tomorrow, to tomorrow, and to tomorrow Creepes in this petty pace from day to day, To the last Syllable of Recorded time: And all our yesterdays, haue lighted Fooles The way to dusty death. Out, out breefe Candle, Life's but a walking Shadow, a poore Player. That struts and frets his houre vpon the Stage, And then is heard no more. It is a Tale Told by an Ideot, full of sound and fury Signifying nothing."
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Copy to Clipboard: "To tomorrow, to tomorrow, and to tomorrow Creepes in this petty pace from day to day, To the last Syllable of Recorded time: And all our yesterdays, haue lighted Fooles The way to dusty death. Out, out breefe Candle, Life's but a walking Shadow, a poore Player. That struts and frets his houre vpon the Stage, And then is heard no more. It is a Tale Told by an Ideot, full of sound and fury Signifying nothing."
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