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"Life", by Sir Walter Raleigh
rittsy
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 sharp 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. :: :: ::