the great love the general gender bear him, / Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, / Would like the spring that turneth wood to stone, / Convert his gyves to graces;

Did these bones cost no more the breeding but to play at loggets with 'em? Mine ache to think on't.

Why, e'en so: and now my Lady Worm's; chapless, and knocked about the mazard with a sexton's spade.

Where be his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks?

the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls his kibe.—

Horatio, I am dead, / Thou liv’st; report me and my cause aright / To the unsatisfied.

Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet. / Mine and my father’s death come not upon thee, / Nor thine on me.

And in the cup an union shall he throw / Richer than that which four successive kings / In Denmark’s crown have worn.

I’ll be your foil, Laertes; in mine ignorance / Your skill shall like a star i’ th’ darkest night, / Stick fiery off indeed.

Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee. I am dead, Horatio.