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.