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текст песни (слова) "What is our life?"
What is our life, our life? A play of passion. Our mirth the music of division. Our mother's wombs the 'tiring houses be, where we are dress'd for this short comedy. Heav'n the judicious sharp spectator is, that sits and marks still who doth act amiss. Our graves, that hide us from the searching 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.