Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
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:
it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

(Shakespeare)