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 'gainst 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! '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.
—Heaven 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 month—
Let me not think on ’t. Frailty, thy name is woman!—
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
With which she followed my poor father’s body,
Like Niobe, all tears.
Why she, even she—
O God, a beast that wants discourse of reason
Would have mourned longer!—married with my uncle,
My father’s brother, but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules.
Oh that my body would melt into a liquid or that God hadn’t made suicide against his law. O, God!
How worthless and dull this world and my life seem to me.
Damn it! The world is like a garden that is overgrown with weeds and bad thing grow in it. I can’t believe it has come to this.
My father has been dead two months, not even two months.
He was such a good king; he was like a sun god to Claudius’ man/goat.
My dad was so in love with my mom that he wouldn’t even let the wind blow across her face in a rough way.
God, do I have to remember them like that?
Why, my mom would hang on dad like she couldn’t get enough of him; the more she was with him the more she wanted to be with him, but within a month after he dies…
I don’t want to think about it. Women…you are all weak!
A little less than a month; even before the shoes she wore to my father’s funeral were old, crying like Niobe
Why even a beast with little thought of their own would have mourned longer---she married my uncle who isn’t like my father just like I am not like Hercules
Within a month,
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her gallèd 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.
Less than a month, even before the tears were gone from her eyes, she married.
Oh, so quick to jump into a bed of incest.
This is not good and nothing good can come from it, but my heart is broken because I have to keep my thoughts to myself.