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- O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d His canon against 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 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 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 old with which she follow’d my poor father 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: Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married. O, most wicked speed, to post With 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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