HAMLET: Life is an unweeded garden gone to seed, where only rank and rotten things grow!
How did it come to this? My father’s been dead only two months—no, not even two!
Such an excellent king, as superior to my uncle as a god is to a beast, and so loving toward my mother that he kept the wind from blowing too hard on her face.
Heaven and earth, why am I the only one who remembers? She used to hang on my father, as if his presence made her even hungrier for him!
Yet even so, within a month of my father’s death . . .
Let me not think of it.