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 '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 nature 
Possess it merely. That it [bad word] 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 might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! 
Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him 
As if increase of appetite had grown 
By what it fed on; and yet, within a month- 
Let me not think on't! Frailty, thy name is woman!- 
little month, or ere those shoes were old 
With which she followed 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 father 
Than I to Hercules. Within a month! 
O, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! 
It is not, nor it [bad word] to good. 
But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue!