All the world to 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 muleing and puking in the nurses' arms, and then the whining schoolboy with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping like snail and willingly to school. And then the lover, sying like furnace, with a wofold ballad made to his mistress's eyebrow, in a soldier full of strange oak with some bearded like the part, jealous and on our sudden and quick-kin quarrel, seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice in fair round belly with good-keep online, with eyes severe and beard of formal cut, full of wise sauce and modern instances, and so he plays his part. The six-age shifts into the lean and slippered pantaloon, with spectacles on those and pouch on side, his youthful hose well-saved, a whirl too wide for his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, turning again toward childish treble, pipes and whistles in his sound. Just seen of all that ends a strange eventful history, his second childishness, and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.