On The Life Of Man Poem by William Strode
On The Life Of Man
What is our life? a play of passion;
Our mirth the musick of division:
Our mother's wombes the tyring houses bee
Where wee are drest for tyme's short comedy:
The earth's the stage, heaven the spectator is,
Who marketh still whoere doth act amisse:
Our graves that hide us from the burning sunne
Are but drawne curtaynes when the play is done
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8/15/2026 6:28:04 AM # rel_20260813T193622Z_3aad590
