I have of late,--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; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,--why, it appeareth nothing thing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no, nor woman neither. . .
Tags: Withnail Hamlet
