To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our poor brothers have become husks
Giv’n fates much worse than death. Burn, burn, brief candle!
For these are walking shadows, lifeless players,
That strut and fret their hours upon the stage, and
Seek what they do not have. Their brainless minds
Command live corpses, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.