/They have their exits and their entrances; /And one man in his time plays many parts,/...

Jaques: 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. 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 slipper'd 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