[Within Dunsinane Castle. On stage is King Macbeth, Enter Macbeth's adjutant, Seyton] Macb. Wherefore was that cry? Sey. The Queen, my Lord, is dead. Macb: 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, Signifying nothing. (Enter a messenger) Thou com'st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. Mess. Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do it. Macb.                              Well, say, sir.