WHAT is our life? The play of passion. <br />Our mirth? The music of division: <br />Our mothers’ wombs the tiring-houses be, <br />Where we are dressed for life’s short comedy. <br />The earth the stage; Heaven the spectator is, <br />Who sits and views whosoe’er doth act amiss. <br />The graves which hide us from the scorching sun <br />Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. <br />Thus playing post we to our latest rest, <br />And then we die in earnest, not in jest.<br /><br />Sir Walter Raleigh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/what-is-our-life/
