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| She should have died hereafter; there would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day... | |
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| ...to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! | |
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| 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, signifying nothing. | |
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