All a woman’s names are a stage,
Of all the men and women players in her life.
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one woman in her time plays many parts,
Her acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. 
And then the confirmation candidate, with her white
And red shining robe, vowing to be a
Brave warrior like Joan of Arc. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to her husband’s name. Then divorcee,
Full of strange oaths and constant like the byline;
Jealous in reporting, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth.  Then remarriage,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
Changing her moniker to pledge her belief
That hope would truly overcome experience.
And so she plays her part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With contact lens and middle initial resurgent;
Her youthful byline, well saved, but a world too narrow
For three whole names; and her woman’s voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles, experienced and believing. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is high school reunion and Facebook entry,
Back to childhood, sans husbands, sans middle age, sans everything.
Apologies and thanks to Mr. William Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon and Mrs. Margaret Goodman of Grace King High School.