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.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

I see, sir, you are liberal in offers. You taught me first to beg, and now methinks You teach me how a beggar should be answered.

When you do dance, I wish you a wave o' the sea, that you might ever do nothing but that.

Come not within the measure of my wrath.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost.