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.