Chapter 217

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!

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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.

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Why, she would hang on him, As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on.

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Frailty, thy name is woman! A little month.

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Like Niobe, all tears.

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My father's brother; but no more like my father Than I to Hercules.