All The World's 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 act being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then whining schoolboys,
With his satchel and shining face, creeping like snail unwilling 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 pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth
And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good of 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 towards childish treble,
Pipes and whistles in his sound.
Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history is a second childishness and more oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans taste, sans everything,
W. Shakespeare
Komentar
Posting Komentar