All the world’s a stage,
and all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts.
His acts being seven ages.
at first, the infant,
Muling and puking in the nurse's arms,
Then, the whining school boy,
with his satchel, and shining morning face,
creeping like snail unwillingly to school.
And then, the lover, sighing like furnace,
with a woful ballad made to his mistress’
eyebrow, and bearded like the pard,
jealous in honour, 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 lin’d,
with eyes severe, and heard of formal cut,
full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part.
The sixth age shifts into the lean
spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well sav’d, a world too wide
for his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
turning again toward childish treble, pipes and
whistle 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.