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.