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 Q! Q!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this galaxy!
Boothby! '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:
So excellent an Admiral; that was, to this, My Win