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.
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.
Uma pintura conhecida, de De Chirico e um fotograma celebérrimo, do filme Morangos Silvestres, do sonho de Isak Borg. Servem-me para enquadrar uma passagem de uma peça de William Shakespeare, que fazia parte do meu livro de inglês do 11º ano e que tem a ver com a passagem do tempo. Pertence à peça As you like it, escrita por volta de 1600. No monólogo, Jacques, raio de coincidência, resume a vida de um homem a sete fases.
A parte engraçada, uma das poucas neste dia, foi a procura de uma tradução portuguesa. Vai de Do jeito que você gosta até Como quiserdes. São títulos que exprimem conceitos bem diferentes. Mas quem disse que tudo tem de ser linear?
2 comentários:
Se não me engano, a primeira traduçã que li desta peça - e que é uma resposta bem-humorada de Shakspeare à péssima reacção popular na estreia da sua peça anterior ("Tanto barulho a respeito de nada") era, se a memória não me falha, "Como vos aprouver".
acto II . Cena VII
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