MACBIDEN

Wherefore was that cry?

PELOSI

The republic, my lord, is dead.

MACBETH

She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and… something,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to… you know, the thing
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And Cornpop shows all his homies
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a dog faced pony solder, a poor player
That drools and stumbles his way through a speech
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, kept in his basement,
Accomplishing nothing.