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 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 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!⁠— 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 father