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 From the end of MacBeth:

   Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace
   from day to day till the last syllable of recorded time.  And
   all our yesterdays have but 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 on the stage 
   and is heard no more. It is a tale, told by an idiot, full
   of sound and fury, signifying nothing.