I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent
your discovery, and your  secrecy  to  the  king  and
queen moult no feather. 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  vapours.  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? man delights not  me:  no,  nor
woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say
so. Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2.