A poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It’s a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Life’s but a walking shadow.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends.
I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing to those that know me.
Come, love and health to all;
Give me some wine: fill full
To all, and all to all.
