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(Untitled)
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty place 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
Lifes but a walking shadow; a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
Signifying nothing.
And then he is heard no more. ( Read more... )
