Totus Mundus Agit Histrionem


The Bard's "strutting player", 'tis he

Who entertains, and seeks the clap of hands.

His wordly stage set up for his command performance.

He heeds not the lights, bar that they

Shine on him, alone, in the golden pool

That is his opportunity to lead a dance.


He is the actor on the stage, or he

Is director, whichever fits his muse,

A steaming train of thought.

He executes his lines, and orders same.

He portrays, or he okays,

And expects the stage be there, as it ought.


What of the stagehands, who build

The planks on which he stands?

What of the lights, shining on his noble head?

Thinks he they'll always be there,

As he exists, so should they? Oh, no,

It takes work to make it all, don't be misled.


The actor, part of that company.

Expects conditions be right on the night,

Just as the company expects things too.

A hand leant to build the theatre,

Support, an inkling of what is behind the mystic glow,

And caring who makes up this world we all pass through.


If not, then one day, the actor stands alone,

On a shattered stage he has made all his own.


Mark the line, on the old Drury arch,

"The whole world acts the actor."