As You Like It

by William Shakespeare

for those that she makes fair she scarce makes honest; and those that she makes honest she makes very ill-favouredly.

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,

Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Love is merely a madness;

I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects: and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels; in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.