Mr. Shakespeare, I took some liberties.

All the world’s a stage,
And women merely puppets
They have their forced exits and manipulated entrances,
And one woman in her time plays many parts,
Her acts being seven ages. At first, the foetus
killed in the mother’s womb
Then the responsible home-girl, with brooms and pans
And covered pretty face, creeping like snail
Unwilling to be sent to school.. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, discredited forced to leave
Then married to a stranger
Full of strange oaths and dowry responsibilities
in fear of being burnt, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking a reputation and living upto the desired chastity
Even by throwing desires into the well
And then the pregnancy
In fair round belly
With eyes laiden with dreams of a son
Full of a hovering family
And so she plays her part. The sixth age shifts
Into the skinny motherhood where they come before yourself
With sweat on nose and broken back
Her youth all degenerated
For her unheard voice still clueless among the big manly ones of son and husband
Turning again towards oppression and dependence
seventh

That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans ambitions, sans heart, san courage, sans education, sans everything!