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
William Shakespeare
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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