How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

"O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fixt 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! O, fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, that grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature possess it merely." -- Shakespeare, Hamlet 2. ii.