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 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 vapors.
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,
What is this quintessence of dust?

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.