What a piece of work is a man

What a piece of work is a man

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 mighty o’erhanging
firmament, this Majestical roofe fretted with golden fire; why, it
appears 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 aprehension, how like
a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals! And yet to
me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me, no,
nor women neither, nor women neither.