(A cry within of women.)
What is that noise?
It is the cry of women, my good lord.
I have almost forgot the taste of fears:
The time has been, my senses would have cooled
To hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir
As life were in 't: I have supped full with horrors.
Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts,
Cannot once start me.
Wherefore was that cry?
The Queen, my lord, is dead.
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,
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,
(Enter a Messenger.)
(from "Macbeth," Act 5, Scene 5, lines 8-28)