HAMLET
O that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew, Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God, O 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…
