Hamlet and Freud:

. . . .Frailty, thy name is woman!
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
With which she followed my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears--why she, even she--
O God!  A beast that wants discourse of reason
Would have mourned longer--married with my uncle,
My Father's brother--but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules.  Within a month,
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,
She married.  O most wicked speed!  To post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!

. . . .Nay, but to live
In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,
Stewed in corruption, honeying and making love
Over the nasty sty!

. . . .Mother, for love of grace,
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul,
That not your trespass but my madness speaks.
It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,
Whiles rank corruption, mining all within,
Infects unseen.  Confess yourself to heaven,
Repent what's past, avoid what is to come;
And do not spread the compost on the weeds
To make them ranker . . . But go not to my uncle's bed.
Assume a virtue if you have it not.