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 puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly 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,
Is the second childishness
and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth,
sans eyes,
sans taste,
sans everything.
To be or not to be,
that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer,
the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
by opposing end them?
To die: to sleep.
No more.
And by a sleep to say we end
the heart-ache
and the thousand natural shocks
that flesh is heir to,
'tis a consummation
devoutly to be wished.
To die, to sleep.
To sleep,
perchance to dream.
There's the rub
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.
There's the respect
that makes calamity of so long life
For who would bear the whips
and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong,
the proud man's contumely,
the pangs of despised love,
the law's delay,
The insolence of office
and the spurns that patient merit
of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
with a bare bodkin?
Who would fardels bear,
to grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
the undiscovered country from whose bourn
no traveller returns,
puzzles the will
and makes us rather bear those ills we have
than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make
cowards of us all,
and thus the native hue of resolution
is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
and enterprises of great pith and moment
with this regard their currents turn awry,
and lose the name of action.
Our revels now are ended.
These our actors,
as I foretold you,
were all spirits,
and are melted into air,
into thin air.
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
the cloud-capped towers,
the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples,
the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit,
shall dissolve.
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.
We are such stuff
as dreams are made on,
and our little life
is rounded with a sleep.
