[last lines]
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[holding umbrella in rain]
I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth. 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 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! How like an angel in apprehension! How like a *god*!
[extends arm with umbrella straight up to sky]
Withnail:
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 women neither... Nor women neither.
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05/03/2025 alle ore 09:10
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