CLAUDIUS: How is it that the clouds still hang on you?Ā
HAMLET: Ā Oh, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt,Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon āgainst self-slaughter! O God, God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on āt, ah fie! āTis 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 deadānay, not so much, not two.So excellent a king, that was to this Hyperion to a satyr. So loving to my motherĀ
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly.āHeaven 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 monthāLet me not think on āt. Frailty, thy name is woman!āA little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she followed my poor fatherās body,Like Niobe, all tears. Why she, even sheāO God, a beast that wants discourse of reason Would have mourned longer!āmarried with my uncle,My fatherās 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 gallĆØd 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.
