O' What may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!
All of Creation’s a farce. Man was born as a joke. In his head his reason is buffeted Like wind-blown smoke. Life is a game. Everyone ridicules everyone else. But he who has the last laugh Laughs longest.
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
This is the very coinage of your brain: this bodiless creation ecstasy.
Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
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