Testtext

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

To the last syllables of recorded time

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The Way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle

Life's just a walking shadow

A poor player that frets und struts its 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.