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 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      Metaphor: Likens life to a short insignificant part of a larger                                                                                                   more significant play. 

And then is heard no more:

it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.



Respond now!