Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps while this default earn penal interest!
To the last syllable of recorded time
My name shall ill-spoken be: a spendthrift’s fate;
Do I walk debtor’s path or pay up head high
Or pledge my walking shadow to creditors
All sundry,- and nod in surrender?
Life is an idiot who holds the cash-box
For those who live to spend spend, spend.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
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,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,