Ham.
Oh that this too-too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve it self into a dew;
Or that the Everlasting had not fixt
His cannon 'gainst self-slaughter. Oh God! oh God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world?
Fie on't! oh fie! 'tis an unweeded garden

That grows to seed; things rank, and gross in nature
Possess it meerly that it should come thus.
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 permitted not the winds of heav'n
Visit her face too roughly. Heav'n and earth!
Must I remember?—why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on; yet within a month?—
Let me not think—Frailty, thy name is woman!
A little month!—or e'er those shooes were old
With which she follow'd my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears—Why she, ev'n she,—
Oh heav'n! a beast that wants discourse of reason
Would have mourn'd longer—married with mine uncle,
My father's brother; 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 gauled eyes,
She married. Oh 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.

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