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.
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 hair 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.
William Shakespeare
As You Like
It
Act II, Sc.
7
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Ages of Man
