O, that this too too solid flesh would melt
William Shakespeare
1564 to 1616
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O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,
and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the had not fix’d
His canon ’gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable
Seem to me the uses of this world!
Fie on’t! ah fie! ’tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should 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
he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of had grown
By what it fed on: and yet, a month—
Let me not think on’t—Frailty, thy name woman!—
A little month; or ere those shoes old
With which she follow’d my poor father’s body,
Niobe, all tears:—why she, even she—
O, God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourn’d longer—married my uncle,
My father’s brother, but no more like father
Than I to Hercules: within a month:
Ere the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the in her galled eyes,
She married. O, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It not nor it cannot come to good:
But break, heart; for I must hold my tongue.