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.
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O, That This Too Too Solid Flesh
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.
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