All The World's A Stage.

For In My Youth I Never Did Apply Hot And Rebellious Liquors In My Blood.

Oh, How This Spring Of Love Resembleth, The Uncertain Glory Of An April Day, Which Now Shows All Beauty Of The Sun, And By And By A Cloud Takes All Away

Conversation Should Be Pleasant Without Scurrility, Witty Without Affectation, Free Without Indecency, Learned Without Conceitedness, Novel Without Falsehood.

Why Then, O Brawling Love! O Loving Hate! O Any Thing, Of Nothing First Create! O Heavy Lightness, Serious Vanity, Misshapen Chaos Of Well-seeming Forms, Feather Of Lead, Bright Smoke, Cold Fire, Sick Health, Still-waking Sleep, That Is Not What It Is! This Love Feel I, That Feel No Love In This.

O World, How Apt The Poor Are To Be Proud!