If all the world's a stage, today is the final scene of an act?

An academic term is coming to an end--this week is the final week of in-class meetings.

The scripts that I have had for my classes are almost done.  Most of them turned out well, while there were a few scenes that fell flat.

Today is the final scene in one of my classes.  I am appropriately attired to play my role, and so will my students be (I hope, I hope!)

Soon the curtains will fall.  Over the next few days we will take our bows, then have an intermission (spring break) after which the next Act will resume.

Here is to hoping that I am far, far away from "sans everything" :) 

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.