Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace ...
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day,Homer (as Macbeth)
to the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have 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 upon the stage
And then is heard no more.