One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, / So fast they follow.

No, no, the drink, the drink! O my dear Hamlet! The drink, the drink! I am poison'd.

Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane, / Drink off this potion. Is thy union here? / Follow my mother.

Does it not, thinks’t thee, stand me now upon,— / He that hath kill’d my king, and whor’d my mother, / Popp’d in between th’election and my hopes, / Thrown out his angle for my proper life, / And with such cozenage—is’t not perfect conscience / To quit him with this arm?

A little month, or ere those shoes were old / With which she followed my poor father’s body / Like Niobe, all tears.—

O God! A beast that wants discourse of reason / Would have mourn’d longer,—married with mine uncle, / My father’s brother; but no more like my father / Than I to Hercules.

Thou know’st ’tis common, all that lives must die, / Passing through nature to eternity.

O Hamlet, what a falling off was there, / From me, whose love was of that dignity / That it went hand in hand even with the vow / I made to her in marriage; and to decline / Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor / To those of mine.

No, good mother, here's metal more attractive.

What should a man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within's two hours.