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Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Β Β
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, Β Β
To the last syllable of recorded time; Β Β
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools Β Β
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Β Β
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, Β Β
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, Β Β
And then is heard no more. It is a tale Β Β
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Β Β
Signifying nothing.
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