A stage where every man must play a part,
And mine a sad one.”
Mundus universus exercet histrioniam,—the saw is Petronius Arbiter’s. There is an obverse reading, by some other old Eminent Hand: Totum mundum agit histrio. If all the world’s a play, so again there’s not in all the world a character the player won’t act. Lucretius had the stage simile of life in his mind’s eye, when he said of those who hide certain of their doings, vitæ post-scenia celant,—the post-scenium being what we call “behind the scenes,” where the actors dress and “make up” for their parts. And what says a distich in the Greek Anthology:
“Σκηνὴ πᾶς ὁ βίος, καὶ παίγνιον· ἢ μάθε παίζειν,
Τὴν σπουδὴν μεταθεὶς, ἢ φέρε τὰς ὀδύνας.”
“Life is a stage, a play: so learn thy part,
All cares removed, or rend with grief thy heart.”
Sir Thomas Browne professes, in his large utterance and stately style: “The world to me is but a dream or mock show, and we all therein but pantaloons and anticks, to my severer contemplations.” To the same effect, though not in the same spirit, Wordsworth’s recluse avows himself tired
“Of the ostentatious world a swelling stage