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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Tuesday, July 12, 2011 - 00:51
Poesia Consagrada :
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Topic | Title | Replies | Views | Last Post | Language | |
---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
Poesia Consagrada/General | Juliet's Soliloquy | 0 | 1.712 | 07/12/2011 - 01:25 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Love | Love | 0 | 2.043 | 07/12/2011 - 01:26 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/General | My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130) | 0 | 2.250 | 07/12/2011 - 01:27 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/General | Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck (Sonnet 14) | 0 | 1.928 | 07/12/2011 - 01:28 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/General | Not marble nor the guilded monuments (Sonnet 55) | 0 | 2.517 | 07/12/2011 - 01:29 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/General | Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile | 0 | 2.352 | 07/12/2011 - 01:30 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/General | O Never Say That I Was False of Heart | 0 | 3.970 | 07/12/2011 - 01:31 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/General | Orpheus | 0 | 3.654 | 07/12/2011 - 01:32 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/General | Orpheus with his Lute Made Trees | 0 | 3.012 | 07/12/2011 - 01:33 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/General | Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? (Sonnet 18) | 0 | 3.817 | 07/12/2011 - 01:34 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/General | Sigh No More | 0 | 3.801 | 07/12/2011 - 01:35 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/General | Silvia | 0 | 4.480 | 07/12/2011 - 01:36 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonet LIV | 0 | 4.448 | 07/12/2011 - 01:37 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 1 | 0 | 4.147 | 07/12/2011 - 01:38 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 10: For shame, deny that thou bear'st love to any | 0 | 4.068 | 07/12/2011 - 01:40 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/General | Sonnet 100: Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long | 0 | 4.059 | 07/12/2011 - 01:42 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 101: O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends | 0 | 4.310 | 07/12/2011 - 01:43 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 102: My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming | 0 | 3.508 | 07/12/2011 - 01:50 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 103: Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth | 0 | 4.267 | 07/12/2011 - 01:52 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 104: To me, fair friend, you never can be old | 0 | 4.329 | 07/12/2011 - 01:53 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 105: Let not my love be called idolatry | 0 | 4.646 | 07/12/2011 - 01:53 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 106: When in the chronicle of wasted time | 0 | 3.949 | 07/12/2011 - 01:54 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 107: Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul | 0 | 3.975 | 07/12/2011 - 01:56 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 108: What's in the brain that ink may character | 0 | 3.918 | 07/12/2011 - 01:57 | English | |
Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet | Sonnet 109: O, never say that I was false of heart | 0 | 4.787 | 07/12/2011 - 01:57 | English |
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