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. As, first the infant,
Mewling
and puking in the nurse's arms.
And 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 woeful ballad
Made to
his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of
strange oaths 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 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 slipper'd 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.