All the world's a game table,
And those around it merely players;
They have their critical hits and misses;
And one group in their time tells many tales,
Though more remain untold. The first character
Chosen at a whim, paper-thin and doomed,
Steps aside for a proper heroine;
Brimming with backstory, ablaze with
Potential; but her campaign is cut short.
The player, alone, seeks solace in rules;
Builds someone unstoppable, optimal,
Unplayed. This mighty adventurer lives
And dies in the player's dreams, character sheet
Pristine, never used in a single scene.
But then, a call: there's a new game to play.
Five friends gather together fortnightly.
A new hero lives and loves and levels;
Wise and dextrous, strong and bright. At last
The campaign ends in glory! What comes next?
A long rest, a fresh start. Then the friends try
New journeys, a new party, for a time:
A princess, a warlock, a paladin,
A bard. But scheduling is hard. Game nights
Slain by the deadliest of dragons: Time.
It demands one last sacrifice, a toll;
Someone to run every role, every roll.
A servant served up on the altar of fun;
The master of games, but player of none.
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 lin’d,
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 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.
If you're not familiar with the full version of "All the World's a Stage," here's a comparison to the original.
(BTW, these images all have alt text.)