Act 1 — Act i. Sc. 2.
Reading edition
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!
That it should come 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.
Why, she would hang on him, As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on.
Frailty, thy name is woman! A little month.
Like Niobe, all tears.
My father's brother; but no more like my father Than I to Hercules.