What is our life? A play of passion, 
   Our mirth the music of division;
   Our mothers' wombs the tiring-houses be 
   Where we are dressed for this short comedy; 
   Heaven the judicious, sharp spectator is 
   That sits and marks still who doth act amiss; 
   Our graves that hide us from the searching sun 
   Are like drawn curtains when the play is done: 
   Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest, 
   Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.