No traveller returns, puzzles the will
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
And thus the native hue of resolution
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep.
So excellent a king; that was, to this,
O, God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not nor it cannot come to good:
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother.
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,
As if increase of appetite had grown
Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,
It is not nor it cannot come to good:
She married. O, most wicked speed, to post
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes.
