She should have died herafter.
There would have been time for such a word...
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
Creeps along 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 is 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 furry,
Signifying nothing.
