O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, / Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! / Or that the Everlasting had not fixed / His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! / O God! O God! / How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable / Seems to me all the uses of this world! / Fie on't! O 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.