O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and

Count myself a king of infinite space, were it not

That I have bad dreams

Which dreams, indeed, are ambition

For the very substance of the ambitious is merely

The shadow of a dream

To be honest, as this world goes, is to

Be one man picked out of ten thousand

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 appeareth nothing to me

But a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in

Reason, how infinite in faculties