Volume 2 — The Seven Ages of Man

All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women in it are merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time may play many parts, His acts being,—“Seven Ages.” At first the infant, mewing and puking in the nurse’s arms; Then the whining schoolboy, With his satchel and shining morning face, Creeping like snail, unwillingly to school. Then the soldier, full of strange oaths And bearded like a pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble, reputation, Even in the cannon’s mouth. Then the lover, sighing like a furnace, With a woeful ballad made to his mistress’ eyebrow. And then the justice, in fair round belly, And good capon lined, With eyes to see, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances. And so he plays his part. The sixth age, slips into the lean and slippers pantalon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose well filled, a world too wide For his shrunk shanks, And his big, manly voice, turning again to childish treble, Pipes and whistles in his sounds. Last scene of all that ends this strange eventful history is second childishness and mere oblivion, sans eyes, sans teeth, sans taste, sans everything.

Did you ever stop to think as the hearse rolls by, That sooner or later both you and I Will travel along in the selfsame hack, With never a worry about coming back? They’ll lift you out and they’ll lower you down, The men with their shovels will stand around; They’ll throw in some dirt and they’ll throw in some rocks, And it will fall with a thump on your old pine box. The worms crawl out and the worms crawl in, They’ll crawl all over your mouth and chin; They’ll call in their friends and their friends’ friends, too, And you’ll look like hell when they’re through with you.