All the world's a stage,<br />And all the men and women merely players;<br />They have their exits and their entrances,<br />And one man in his time plays many parts,<br />His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,<br />Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.<br />Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel<br />And shining morning face, creeping like snail<br />Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,<br />Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad<br />Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,<br />Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,<br />Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,<br />Seeking the bubble reputation<br />Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,<br />In fair round belly with good capon lined,<br />With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,<br />Full of wise saws and modern instances;<br />And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts<br />Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,<br />With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;<br />His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide<br />For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,<br />Turning again toward childish treble, pipes<br />And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,<br />That ends this strange eventful history,<br />Is second childishness and mere oblivion,<br />Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.