"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 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 taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing."
Shakespeare, writer--From Macbeth (V, v, 19)
I thought this was fun, so I borrowed it from Sporksforall.