She should have died hereafter. There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
20Creeps 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
25That 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.
MACBETH

She would have died later anyway. That news was bound to come someday. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. The days creep slowly along until the end of time. And every day that’s already happened has taken fools that much closer to their deaths. Out, out, brief candle. Life is nothing more than an illusion. It’s like a poor actor who struts and worries for his hour on the stage and then is never heard from again. Life is a story told by an idiot, full of noise and emotional disturbance but devoid of meaning.
Enter a MESSENGER
A MESSENGER enters.
Thou comest to use
Thy tongue; thy story quickly.
You’ve come to tell me something. Tell me quickly.
MESSENGER

Gracious my lord,
30I should report that which I say I saw,
But know not how to do ’t.
MESSENGER

My gracious lord, I should tell you what I saw, but I don’t know how to say it.
MACBETH

Well, say, sir.
MACBETH

Just say it.
MESSENGER

As I did stand my watch upon the hill,
I looked toward Birnam, and anon methought
The wood began to move.

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