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I HAVE OF LATE, FOR WHEREFORE I KNOW NOT, LOST ALL MY MIRTH. And indeed, it goes so heavenly with my disposition, that this goodly frame the earth seems to me a sterile promontory. Most excellent canopy the'air, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, with it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. what a pice of work is a man. how noble in reason; in form and moving, how express and admirable; how admirable in faculties, how like an angel in apprehension, in action how like a god; the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals. and yet, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delight not me, no, nor women neither.