HAMLET.
Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers (if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me), with two provincial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir?
This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the sky, look you, this brave overhanging 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 faculties! 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, nor woman neither.
Get thee to a nunnery; why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us.
KING.
Now, Hamlet, where's Polonius?