All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely bacteria marinating cesspools;

They have their germs and their viruses;

And one man in his time transmits many a germ,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;

And then the whining school-boy, with his sneezing

And moist mucus dripping face, seeping like a faucet

Unwillingly a cough-coverer. And then a hand-washer,

Fever like a furnace, with a hot head and whining ballad

Gives the sick to his mistress’ body. Then a cog in the machine,

Full of strange snot, and pale like paper,

Jealous of health, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the vaccine, restless he grew,

Even Facebook post. In social distance,

In weak physicality and no capon lin’d,

With eyes bloodshot and beard growing wild

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion;

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

-A Well-Mannered William Shakespeare