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,
If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favours nor your hate.
