Or that the everlasting had not fix'd his canon against self slaughter [did I get this right? Was it not the other way round?]. Oh god, oh god, how weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this Self.
Fie on’t, fie, tis an unweeded garden that has grown to seed,
things rank and gross in nature process it merely.
That it should come to this, but a moment, and yet
those wants are old with which the present
was to be avoided. But a little moment, oh god, why, why? Even, but why?
[a few extraordinarily beautiful parts cut here, originally by Shakespeare and then]
Oh, god, be I a beast that wants
discourse for reason
so I can mourn truer.
Married to a self,
my mind’s creation,
yet no more like me
that I believed
it to be.
To be drop
A dew drop
A falling dewdrop of the sky.