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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 yesterdays have
lighted foots the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!Life is 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. |
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