O, that this too too solid flesh would melt<br />Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!<br />Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd<br />His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!<br />How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,<br />Seem to me all the uses of this world!<br />Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,<br />That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature<br />Possess it merely. That it should come to this!<br />But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two:<br />So excellent a king; that was, to this,<br />Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother<br />That he might not beteem the winds of heaven<br />Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!<br />Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,<br />As if increase of appetite had grown<br />By what it fed on: and yet, within a month--<br />Let me not think on't--Frailty, thy name is woman!--<br />A little month, or ere those shoes were old<br />With which she follow'd my poor father's body,<br />Like Niobe, all tears:--why she, even she--<br />O, God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,<br />Would have mourn'd longer--married with my uncle,<br />My father's brother, but no more like my father<br />Than I to Hercules: within a month:<br />Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears<br />Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,<br />She married. O, most wicked speed, to post<br />With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!<br />It is not nor it cannot come to good:<br />But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue.