"The queen, my lord, is dead.
She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable ot recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, bried candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is head no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing." V, v, 16-28.