Only the words of the bard can properly express my sorrow at the tale of Bon...

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...
Frailty, thy name is woman