This Quintessence of Dust

"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 but 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..."

- Hamlet II.ii

This Cursed Hand

What if this cursed hand were thicker than itself with brother's blood,
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens to wash it white as snow?

 - Claudius in Hamlet III.iii