Boys-Shakespeare

Hamlet - Act1 Scn2

HAMLET
William Shakespeare

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 '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 follow'd my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears – why, she - even she -
O God, a beast, that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourn'd longer - married with my uncle,
My father's brother - but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules. Within a month,
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her galled 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.