I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all

custom of exercises; 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 overhanging firmament, this

majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why it

appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent

congregation of vapours. What piece of work is a man

– how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form

and moving; how express and admirable in action; how

like an angel in apprehension; how like a god; the

beauty of the world; the paragon of animals. And yet to

me what is this quintessence of dust?