All the world's a stage,
And all the men and
women merely players;
They have their exits
and their entrances,
And one man in his time
plays many parts,
His acts being seven
ages. At first, the
infant,
Mewling and puking in
the nurse's arms.
Then the whining
schoolboy, with his
satchel
And shining morning
face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And
then the lover,
Sighing like furnace,
with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress'
eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths
and bearded like the
pard,
Jealous in honor,
sudden and quick in
quarrel,
Seeking the bubble
reputation
Even in the cannon's
mouth. And then the
justice,
In fair round belly with
good capon lined,
With eyes severe and
beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and
modern instances;
And so he plays his part.
The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and
slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose
and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well
saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank,
and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward
childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his
sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange
eventful history,
Is second childishness
and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes,
sans taste, sans
everything.
