What is our life?

What is our life? a play of passion:

Our mirth? the music of division.

Our mothers' wombs the tyring-houses be

Where we are drest for this short comedy:

Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is

That sits and marks whoe'er 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.