Updated: 1/31/2020
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Storyboard Text

  • Fie on't, ah fie! 'Tis an unweeded garden that grows to seed. Things rank and gross in nature possess 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 mother that he beteem the winds of heaven visit her face too roughly
  • O, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew, or that the everlasting had not fixed His cannon 'gainst (self-slaughter!) O God, God, How (weary), stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
  • Must i remember? Why she would hang on him as if increase of appetite had grown by what it feed 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 old With 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:
  • Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tearsShe married. O, most wicked speed, to postWith such dexterity to incestuous sheets!It is not nor it cannot come to good:But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue.
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