All The World's A Stage
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.
