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 his 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 woful ballad
    Made to his mistress’ eye-brow.  Then, a soldier
    Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
    Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
    Seeking the bubble reputation,
    Ev’n in the cannon’s mouth.  And then, the justice,
    In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d;
    With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
    Full of wise saws and modern instances,
    And so he plays his part.  The sixth age foists
    Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
    With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side. 
    His youthful hose well sav’d, a world too wide
    For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice
    Turning again towards 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 every thing.

SPEECHES IN THE ROMAN SENATE.

    CATO.—­Fathers! we once again are met in council. 
    Caesar’s approach, has summon’d us together,
    And Rome attends her fate from our resolves. 
    How shall we treat this bold aspiring man? 
    Success still follows him, and backs his crimes,
    Pharsalia gave him Rome.  Egypt has since
    Receiv’d his yoke, and the whole Nile is Caesar’s. 
    Why should I mention Juba’s overthrow,
    And Scipio’s death?  Numidia’s burning sands
    Still smoke with blood.  ’Tis time we should decree
    What course to take.  Our foe advances on us,
    And envies us ev’n Lybia’s sultry deserts. 
    Fathers, pronounce your thoughts.  Are they still fix’d
    To hold it out and fight it to the last? 
    Or, are your hearts subdu’d, at length, and wrought;
    By time and ill success, to a submission?—­
    Sempronius, speak.

    SEMPRONIUS.—­My voice is still for war. 
    Gods! can a Roman senate long debate
    Which of the two to chuse, slav’ry or death? 
    No—­let us rise at once; gird on our swords;
    And, at the head of our remaining troops,
    Attack the foe; break through the thick array
    Of his throng’d legions; and charge home upon him. 
    Perhaps, some arm, more lucky than the rest,
    May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. 
    Rise, Fathers, rise!  ’Tis Rome demands your help;
    Rise, and revenge her slaughter’d