All the world’s a stage,
and all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts

You are the morning lark
when in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes
I all alone beweep my ourcast state,
and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
and looking upon myself and curse my fate,
wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
featur’d like him, like him with friends possess’d,
desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,
with what I most enjoy contented least;
yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
haply I think on thee, and then my state
(like to the lark at break of day arising from sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate,
for thy sweet love rememb’red such wealth brings,
that then I scorn to change my state with kings.