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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.
This most excellent canopy the air, look you, this brave oer’hanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,
why it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
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.
And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust?
Man delights not me.
No, nor women neither.
Nor women neither. |