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