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Hamlet:
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
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
Posess it merely. That it should come to this.....
Shakespeare:better than sex.
Who's with me?
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