_"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 pewking in the nurse's arms; And then the whining school boy, with his satchel, And shining, morning face, creeping like a 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 the pard, Jealous in honor, 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 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 toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound; Last scene of all That ends this strange, eventful history In second childishness, and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything!"_ In "Measure for Measure" the brave Duke, the pure Isabella and cowardly Claudio discourse thus on death: _"Be absolute for death; either death or life, Shall thereby be sweeter. Reason thus with life,-- If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing But none but fools would keep; a breath thou art, (Servile to all the skiey influences) That dost this habitation, where thou keepest, Hourly afflict; merely, thou art death's fool; For him thou laborest by thy flight to shun, And yet run'st toward him still; Thou art not noble; For all the accommodations that thou bear'st Are nursed by baseness: Thou art by no means valiant: For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork Of a poor worm! Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself; For thou exist'st on many thousand grains That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not; For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get; And what thou hast forgett'st; Thou art not certain For thy complexion shifts to strange effects, After the moon. If thou art rich, thou art poor; For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey, And Death unloads thee! Friend hast thou none; For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire The mere effusion of thy proper loins, Do curse the gout, leprosy, and the rheum For ending thee no sooner; Thou hast nor youth, nor age, But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep, Dreaming on both; For all thy blessed youth