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,
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 satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
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 saved, 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.
My take on the seven faces of blogging:
All the world's a Web,
And all the men and women merely bloggers:
They have their posts and their comments;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His blogs having seven faces. There's the newbie,
Mewling and puking his embarrassing secrets.
And then the whining bloviator, with his hatreds
And roaring boldface caps, screeching like a cat
Thrown into a stream. And next the argufier,
Making like Quixote, with lance atilt
Charging anon at orthodoxies. Then the academician,
Full of theories and bearded for the part,
Jealous of his peers, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the savant's reputation
But also the rabble's roar. And then the pundit,
In pajamas clad and with good port plied,
With eyes alert for oddities to seize upon,
Full of eclectic wisdom and clever phrases;
And so he plays his part. Now we gaze upon
The would-be poet and belle-lettrist,
With drafts propped aside his monitor,
His fingers tapping dizzily at the keyboard,
His eyes ablaze with creative fervor; not wanting
To end his labors even as the bell tolls three,
He dozes in his lonely den. At last we come
To the dispirited burnt-out blogger who will not
Quit his blogging habit until, like Yorick, he is
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
