Wherefore was that cry?
SEYTON: The queen, my lord, is dead.
MACBETH: She should have died hereafter;Enter a Messenger.
There would have been a time for such a word.
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 tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.
Messenger: Gracious my lord, 
I should report that which I say I saw,
But know not how to do it.