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- O, that this too too solid flesh would meltThaw and resolve itself into a dew!Or that the Everlasting had not fix’dHis canon ‘gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,Seem to me all the uses of this world!Fie on’t! ah fie! ’tis an unweeded garden,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,Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my motherThat he might not beteem the winds of heavenVisit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,As if increase of appetite had grownBy what it fed on: and yet, within a month–Let me not think on’t–Frailty, thy name is woman!–A little month, or ere those shoes were oldWith which she follow’d my poor father’s body,Like Niobe, all tears:–why she, even she–
- O, God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,Would have mourn’d longer–married with my uncle,My father’s brother, but no more like my fatherThan I to Hercules: within a month:
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