O, that this 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 mother That he might not beteem the wings of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth, Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him, As if the increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on; and yet within a month - Let me think not on't; frailty, thy name is woman - A little month, or ere these 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 mourned longer - married with my uncle, My father's brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules. Within a month, Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her gall'd 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.