[…] 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
Possess it merely. That it should come to this:
But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two.
So excellent a king; that was, to this
Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and Earth.
Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on. And yet, within a month
(Let me not think on 't; frailty, thy name is woman!)
She married. O, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not nor it cannot come to good.
But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue.
Hamlet's got a serious problem with mom. It's not just that he's
disgusted by Gertrude's incestuous marriage to Claudius —Hamlet can
hardly stand to think about his mother having sex, period. Which, um,
seems normal to us. What's not normal is the way that he keeps thinking about it, anyway.