All the World’s a Stage
What is our life? A play of passion;
Our mirth the music of division;
Our mothers’ wombs the tiring-houses be
When 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.
- Sir Walter Ralegh
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We lost a great artist and one of my personal favorites… whoever she is with I hope they let her down easy.
Rest Well, Etta.
