Hamlet - Act I Scene II

"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! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! O 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!"