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 woful 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 lin’d,

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 sav’d, 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.