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.