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Life

Rating: 3.4

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.

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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Paresh Chakra 29 November 2018

You are great poet thanks for sharing this poem

1 0 Reply
Adriano Andrade 24 November 2005

This poem is simply great! ! ! Adriano Andrade

7 3 Reply