Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled

That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger
To sound what stop she pleases. Give me that

man

That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart As I do thee!"

In the dumb show murder play, before the King and Queen Shakspere puts these phrases in the mouths of the players and Hamlet:

"The great man down, you mark his favorite flies;
The poor advanced makes friends of enemies;
And hitherto doth love on fortune tend;
For who not needs, shall never lack a friend."

"But what's that, your Majesty;

And we that have free souls, it touches us not; Let the galled jade wince, our withers are unwrung!"

King Claudius frightened at the mock play runs away, and Hamlet says to Horatio:

"Why let the stricken deer go weep,

The hart ungalled play;

For some must watch, while some must sleep
Thus runs the world away."

"'Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes

out

Contagion to this world; now could I drink hot blood,

And do such bitter business as the day

Would quake to look on. Soft, now to my mother; I will speak daggers to her, but use none!"

King Claudius the night before his death, after conspiring with Polonius for the exile of Hamlet utters this self-accusing, remorseful soliloquy:

"O, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven;
It hath the primal, eldest curse upon it-
A brother's murder. Pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will;
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent,
And like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood?
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy
But to confront the visage of offense?
And what's in prayer but this twofold force,
To be forestalled ere we come to fall,

Or pardoned being down? Then I'll look up;
My fault is past. But O, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder?
That cannot be, since I am still possessed
Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition and my queen,
May one be pardoned and retain the offense?
In the corrupted currents of this world
Offense's gilded hand may shove by justice,
And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself

Buys out the law; but 'tis not so above;
There, is no shuffling, there, the action lies
In his true nature, and we ourselves compelled
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults
To give in evidence!"

In the midnight interview of Hamlet with his mother, Polonius hides behind a curtain to spy upon the words of the "melancholy Dane," and is killed by a sword thrust of Hamlet, who exclaims:

"How now! a rat, dead for a ducat."

Then Hamlet holds his mother to the talk and pours these lines of liquid gall into her trembling ear and frightened heart:

"Look here, upon this picture, and on this,
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
See what a grace was seated on this brow;
Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove himself,
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
A station like the herald Mercury
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal
To give the world assurance of a man;
This was your husband. Look you now,
What follows:

Here is your husband; like a mildewed ear,
Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this foul moor?

Your husband; a murderer and a villain;

A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe
Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings;
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,
That from a shelf the precious diadem stole
And put it in his pocket!

A king of shreds and patches!"

King Claudius, alarmed at the death of Polonius and his own guilty state, conspires with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to take Hamlet to England and get rid of him, saying:

"Follow him at foot; tempt him with speed abroad, Delay it not; I'll have him hence to-night; Away! for everything is sealed and done

That else leans on the affair; pray you, make

haste!"

Hamlet before retiring thus bemoans his slowness in wreaking a just vengeance upon his murderer uncle:

"How all occasions do inform against me,
And spur my dull revenge! What is a man,
If his chief good and market of his time
Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.

Sure, he that made us with such large discourse
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and god-like reason

To rot in us unused.

Rightly to be great

Is not to stir without great argument;

But greatly to find quarrel in a straw

When honor's at the stake. How stand I then,

That have a father killed, a mother stained,
Excitements of my reason and my blood,
And let all sleep, while to my shame I see
The imminent death of twenty thousand men,
That for a fantasy and trick of fame

Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,
Which is not tomb enough and continent
To hide the slain? O, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody or nothing worth!"

The beautiful Ophelia becomes insane after her father's death, and wanders about the castle singing disjointed love songs and uttering musings. Queen Margaret says:

She sings:

"How now, Ophelia?"

"How should I your true love know

From another one?

By his cockle hat and staff

And his sandal shoon."

The king asks:

"How do you do, pretty lady?"

She replies:

"They say the owl was a banker's daughter; Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be."