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

Why, as a woodcock to my own springe, Osric. I am justly kill'd with mine own treachery.

Was’t Hamlet wrong’d Laertes? Never Hamlet. / If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away, / And when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes, / Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. / Who does it, then? His madness.

The canker galls the infants of the spring / Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d, / And in the morn and liquid dew of youth / Contagious blastments are most imminent.

The chariest maid is prodigal enough / If she unmask her beauty to the moon.

His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own; / For he himself is subject to his birth: / He may not, as unvalu’d persons do, / Carve for himself; for on his choice depends / The sanctity and health of this whole state;

Give thy thoughts no tongue, / Nor any unproportion’d thought his act.

and there put on him / What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank / As may dishonour him; take heed of that; / But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips / As are companions noted and most known / To youth and liberty.

And, like the kind life-rendering pelican, / Repast them with my blood.

That both the worlds, I give to negligence, / Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d / Most throughly for my father.