What is our life? A play of passion, <br />Our mirth the music of division, <br />Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be, <br />Where we are dressed for this short comedy. <br />Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is, <br />That sits and marks still who doth act amiss. <br />Our graves that hide us from the setting sun <br />Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. <br />Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest, <br />Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.<br /><br />Sir Walter Raleigh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/life-2/
