O that this too sullied flesh would melt William Shakespeare

O that this too too sullied flesh would melt,
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew, 130
Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d
His canon ‘gainst self-slaughter. O God! 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 135
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 to this
Hyperion to a satyr, so loving to my mother 140
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 – 145
Let me not think on’t – Frailty, thy name is woman –
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
With which she follow’d my poor father’s body,
Like Niobe, all tears – why, she –
O God, a beast that wants discourse of reason 150
Would have mourn’d longer – married with my uncle
My father’s brother – but 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 galled eyes, 155
She married – O 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.