Witches

A poor player that struts and

Frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more

It’s a tale told by an idiot

Full of sound and fury

Signifying nothing

Life’s but a walking shadow

Tomorrow, and tomorrow

Tomorrow, and tomorrow

Do not muse at me

My most worthy friends

I have a strange infirmity

Which is nothing to those

That know me

Come, love and health to all;

Give me some wine: fill full

To all, and all to all