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, (135)
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: (140)
So excellent a king; that was, to this,

Author: William Shakespeare

O, that this too too solid flesh would melt<br />Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!<br />Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd<br />His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!<br />How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, (135)<br />Seem to me all the uses of this world!<br />Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,<br />That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature<br />Possess it merely. That it should come to this!<br />But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: (140)<br />So excellent a king; that was, to this, - William Shakespeare



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