My drops of tears I'll turn to sparks of fire. - William Shakespeare

For you, in my respect, are all the world.
Then how can it be said I am alone
When all the world is here to look on me?

You may my glories and my state depose,
But not my griefs; still am I king of those.

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 than a foul and pestilent
congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is a man!
How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties,
in form and 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 — no, nor woman neither, though by
your smiling you seem to say so.