Friday, March 25, 2016

The Seven Ages of Man

 My students and I read this poem by Shakespeare, yesterday. Sometimes it is so hard to put the ages of man into perspective because sometimes we don't act and look like our age. However, this poem somehow brought out the kind of perspective that no one could deny. When I ask my class, "so what is your age, according to this poem right now?" Some thought that they have a long way to go. Some realized that hey, there's only 7 and I am at 3? Some nonchalantly cared a little about what this poem has to convey. I counted my age, and I am at age 5. Two more "age" years to go.

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.
And then the whining school-boy, 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 slipper’d 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 second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

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