...
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.
Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks.
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 then a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form, in 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? man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, though, by your smiling, you seem to say so.
Use every man after his desert, and who should 'scape whipping?
O! what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her?
That I, the son of a dear father murdered,
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
Must like a whore unpack my heart with words,
and fall a-cursing like a very drab
The play's the thing,
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.
...
William Shakespeare
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