Hamlet
- Hamlet
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 against 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! It's an un weeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely.
