O, that this too too solid flesh would meltThaw and resolve itself into a dew!Or that the Everlastinghad not fix’dHis canon ‘gainst self-slaughter!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,That grows to seed; things rank and gross in naturePossess it merely. That it should come to this!But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two:So excellent a king; that was, to this,
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tearsHad left the flushing in her galled eyes,She married. O, most wicked speed, to postWith such dexterity to incestuous sheets!It is not nor it cannot come to good:Butbreak, my heart; formust hold my tongue.That he might not beteem the winds of heavenVisit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!