’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.

Now might I do it pat, now he is praying. / And now I’ll do’t. And so he goes to heaven; / And so am I reveng’d. That would be scann’d: / A villain kills my father, and for that / I, his sole son, do this same villain send / To heaven. O, this is hire and salary, not revenge.

I must be cruel, only to be kind: / Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.

O Hamlet, speak no more. / Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul, / And there I see such black and grained spots / As will not leave their tinct.

Do not forget. This visitation / Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.

How now? A rat? [_Draws._] / Dead for a ducat, dead!

Not where he eats, but where he is eaten. A certain convocation of politic worms are e'en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service,—two dishes, but to one table. That's the end.

O, from this time forth, / My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth.

Imperious Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay, / Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.

Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, / Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.