What is our life? A play of passion,

Our mirth the music of division,

Our mother's wombs the tiring houses 

be.

Where we are dressed for this short comedy.

Heaven the judicious spectator is,

That sits and marks still who doth act amiss.

Our graves that hide us from the setting 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.