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, 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 , with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the , Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In round belly with good 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 , 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 , pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere , teeth, eyes, taste, everything.
Underlined words and phrases can be tapped for a note
The world is a stage and everyone is an actor, with entrances and exits. One man plays seven roles. First the baby, crying and sicking up in the nurse's arms. Then the schoolboy with his bag, creeping to school like a snail. Then the lover, sighing like a furnace, writing sad ballads about his mistress's eyebrow. Then the soldier, swearing, bearded, jealous of his honour, chasing reputation into cannon fire. Then the judge, fat and well-fed, with severe eyes and a trimmed beard, full of wise sayings. The sixth age is a thin old man in slippers, spectacles on his nose, his young man's trousers far too wide for his shrivelled legs, his big voice piping like a child's. Last scene of all: second childhood and nothing at all — no teeth, no eyes, no taste, no anything.