What a piece of work is a man?

I have of late–but
wherefore I know not–lost all my mirth, forgone all      (2.2.296)
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
o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted
with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to
me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.      (2.2.303)
What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculty! 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,      (2.2.307)
what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not
me: no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling      (2.2.309)
you seem to say so.

 

Hamlet, 2.2

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