The world's a theatre. The earth, a stage <br />Placed in the midst: where both prince and page, <br />Both rich and poor, fool, wise man, base and high, <br />All act their parts in life's short tragedy. <br />Our life's a tragedy. Those secret rooms, <br />Wherein we 'tire us, are our mothers' wombs. <br />The music ushering in the play is mirth <br />To see a man-child brought upon the earth. <br />That fainting gasp of breath which first we vent, <br />Is a dumb show; presents the argument. <br />Our new-born cries, that new-born griefs bewray, <br />Are the sad prologue of the ensuing play. <br />False hopes, true fears, vain joys, and fierce distracts, <br />Are like the music that divides the Acts. <br />Time holds the glass, and when the hour's outrun, <br />Death strikes the epilogue, and the play is done.<br /><br />Francis Quarles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-life-and-death-of-man/
