I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth. And indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition...
that this goodly frame the earth... seems to me a sterile promontory. It's a most excellent canopy, the air.
Look you, this brave, o'er hanging firmament. This majestical roof fretted with golden fire. Why, it appeareth nothing to me... but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, how like an angel in apprehension.
How like a god!
The beauty of the world:
Paragon of animals:
Yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust?
Man delights not me. No, nor women neither. Nor women neither.
