Chapters 14
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1 Life- Read by BK 0:54
Life by Sir Walter Raleigh.
What is our life? A play of passion? Our mirth the music of division? Our mother's wombs the tiring houses be, where we are dressed for this short comedy? Heaven! The judicious sharp spectre is, that sits and marks still who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus we march playing to our latest rest, only we die in earnest. That's no jest.
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2 Life - Read by DL 0:50
Life, by Sir Walter Raleigh.
What is our life? A play of passion, our mirth, the music of division. Our mother's wombs the tiring houses be, where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven, the judicious, sharp spectator is, that sits and marks still, who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest. Only we die in earnest. That's no jest.
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3 Life - Read by DML 1:09
Life.
Life. What is our life? A play of passion, our mirth the music of division. Our mother's wombs the tiring houses be. Where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven, the judicious sharp spectator is, That sits and marks still who doth act amiss. Our graves, that hide us from the setting sun, Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest. Only we die in earnest. That's no jest.
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4 Life - Read by ES 0:53
Life, by Sir Walter Raleigh.
What is our life, a play of passion, our mirth the music of division? Our mother's wombs the tiring houses be, where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven, the judicious sharp spectator is, that sits and marks still who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest. Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.
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5 Life- Read by GHS 1:00
What is our life? A play of passion, our mirth, the music of division. Our mother's wombs the tiring houses be, where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven, the judicious sharp spectator is, that sits, And mark still who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest. Only we die in earnest. That's no jest.
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6 Life- Read by JOC 1:03
Life by Sir Walter Raleigh. What is our life? A play of passion. Our mirth, the music of division. Our mother's wombs the tiring houses be, where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is, That sits and marks still who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest, Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.
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7 Life- Read by LAH 0:57
Life, by Sir Walter Raleigh.
What is our life? A play of passion, our mirth the music of division, our mother's wombs the tiring houses be, where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven, the judicious sharp spectator is, That sits and marks still, who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest, only we die in earnest. That's no jest.
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8 Life - Read by LKP 0:52
Life What is our life? A play of passion, Our mirth the music of division, Our mother's wombs the tiring houses be, Where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is, That sits and marks still who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest. Only we die in earnest. That's no jest.
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9 Life - Read by LLW 0:59
Life, by Sir Walter Raleigh.
What is our life? A play of passion, our mirth, the music of division. Our mother's wombs the tiring houses be, where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven the judicious, sharp spectator is, That sits and marks still, who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we playing to our latest rest. Only we die in earnest. That's no jest.
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10 Life - Read by MFS 0:52
Life by Sir Walter Raleigh.
What is our life? A play of passion, our mirth the music of division. Our mother's wombs the tiring houses be, where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is, that sits and marks still who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we, playing, to our latest dress. Only we die in earnest. That's no jest.
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11 Life - Read by MG 1:17
What is our life? A play of passion, our mirth, the music of division, our mother's wombs, the tiring houses be, where we are dressed for this short Heaven, the judicious sharp spectator is, That sits and marks still, who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest. Only we die in earnest. That's no jest.
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12 Life - Read by RD 0:55
Life by Sir Walter Raleigh.
What is our life, a play of passion, our mirth, the music of division? Our mother's wombs the tiring houses be, where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is, that sits and marks still who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we playing to our latest rest. Only we die in earnest. That's no jest.
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13 Life - Read by REF 0:55
Life by Sir Walter Raleigh.
What is our life? A play of passion. Our mirth, the music of division. Our mother's wombs, the tiring houses be, where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven, the judicious sharp spectator is, that sits and marks still, who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we, playing to our latest rest. Only we die in earnest. That's no jest.
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14 Life - Read by RN 0:52
Life, by Sir Walter Raleigh.
What is our life? A play of passion, our mirth, the music of division, our mothers' wombs, the tiring houses be, where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven, the judicious, sharp spectator is, that sits and marks, still who doth act amiss, Our graves that hide us from the setting sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest, Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.