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 nurses arms.
Then, the whining schoolboy, with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping, like snail, unwillingly to school.
And then, the lover, sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad, made to his mistress' eyebrow.
And then, the soldier, full of strange oathes and bearded like pard, jelous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, seeking the bubble reputation, even in cannon's mouth.
And then, the justice in fair, round belly, in good capen lined, with eyes, severe, and beard of formal cut. Full of wise saws and modern instances.
And so, he plays his part...
The sixth stage shifts into the lean and slippered pantaloon, spectacle 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 to childish treble, pipes and whistles in his sound.
Last scene of all, that ends this strange eventful history,
in second childishness and mear oblivion,
sans teeth, sans eyes,
sans taste,
sans everything.

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