To cut his throat i' th' church.

I will work him / To an exploit, now ripe in my device, / Under the which he shall not choose but fall; / And for his death no wind shall breathe, / But even his mother shall uncharge the practice / And call it accident.

I lov’d Ophelia; forty thousand brothers / Could not, with all their quantity of love, / Make up my sum.

That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once.

Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come.

Let Hercules himself do what he may, / The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?

To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he find it stopping a bung-hole?

Had I but time,—as this fell sergeant, death, / Is strict in his arrest,—O, I could tell you,— / But let it be.

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