William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

COME on, sir; here’s the place:—stand still.—How fearful

And dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eye so low!

The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air,

Show scarce so gross as beetles: half way down

Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!

Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:

The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,

Appear like mice; and yond’ tall anchoring bark

Diminish’d to her cock; her cock, a buoy

Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge,

That on the unnumber’d idle pebbles chafes,

Cannot be heard so high:—I’ll look no more;

Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight

Topple down headlong.