Hamlet is still brooding over the death of his father. Life just seems so utterly pointless and miserable, so much so that Hamlet wishes that God hadn't made suicide a sin:
Oh, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,
Or that the Everlasting had not fixed
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter!
Hamlet's life is like a wild, untended garden—stale, and full of choking, nasty weeds. And his wicked uncle Claudius is the nastiest weed of all. Although Hamlet is as yet unaware that Claudius killed his father, he still hates him anyway. And he doesn't have much time for his mother Gertrude, either. Her late husband had been six feet under for barely a month before she married Claudius. Hamlet deeply resents her for this. But then according to Hamlet, Gertrude, like all women, is weak:
Frailty, thy name is woman!
Hamlet is still in mourning for his late father, and yet Gertrude seems to have moved on quickly—too quickly—with her life. Such indecent haste is...
(The entire section contains 3 answers and 626 words.)