All the World's a Stage
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 woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, 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 slippered 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.
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 woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, 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 slippered 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.
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Monday, July 11, 2011 - 23:51
Poesia Consagrada :
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Topic | Title | Replies | Views |
Last Post![]() |
Language | |
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Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 12: When I do count the clock that tells the time | 0 | 7.225 | 07/12/2011 - 01:13 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 119: What potions have I drunk of Siren tears | 0 | 5.028 | 07/12/2011 - 01:12 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 118: Like as to make our appetite more keen | 0 | 4.454 | 07/12/2011 - 01:09 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 116: Let me not to the marriage of true minds | 0 | 4.829 | 07/12/2011 - 01:07 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 115: Those lines that I before have writ do lie | 0 | 4.781 | 07/12/2011 - 01:06 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 114: Or whether doth my mind, being crowned with you | 0 | 5.038 | 07/12/2011 - 01:05 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 113: Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind | 0 | 4.378 | 07/12/2011 - 01:04 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 112: Your love and pity doth th' impression fill | 0 | 4.598 | 07/12/2011 - 01:02 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 111: O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide | 0 | 4.208 | 07/12/2011 - 01:01 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 110: Alas, 'tis true, I have gone here and there | 0 | 5.053 | 07/12/2011 - 00:59 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 11: As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st | 0 | 5.443 | 07/12/2011 - 00:58 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 109: O, never say that I was false of heart | 0 | 5.661 | 07/12/2011 - 00:57 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 108: What's in the brain that ink may character | 0 | 4.597 | 07/12/2011 - 00:57 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 107: Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul | 0 | 4.730 | 07/12/2011 - 00:56 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 106: When in the chronicle of wasted time | 0 | 4.935 | 07/12/2011 - 00:54 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 105: Let not my love be called idolatry | 0 | 5.426 | 07/12/2011 - 00:53 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 104: To me, fair friend, you never can be old | 0 | 5.239 | 07/12/2011 - 00:53 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 103: Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth | 0 | 4.978 | 07/12/2011 - 00:52 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 102: My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming | 0 | 4.309 | 07/12/2011 - 00:50 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 101: O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends | 0 | 5.051 | 07/12/2011 - 00:43 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/General | Sonnet 100: Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long | 0 | 5.093 | 07/12/2011 - 00:42 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 10: For shame, deny that thou bear'st love to any | 0 | 4.641 | 07/12/2011 - 00:40 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 1 | 0 | 5.053 | 07/12/2011 - 00:38 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonet LIV | 0 | 5.083 | 07/12/2011 - 00:37 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/General | Silvia | 0 | 5.467 | 07/12/2011 - 00:36 | English |
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