O rose of May! / Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! / O heavens, is’t possible a young maid’s wits / Should be as mortal as an old man’s life?

The ocean, overpeering of his list, / Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste / Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, / O’erbears your offices.

And so have I a noble father lost, / A sister driven into desperate terms, / Whose worth, if praises may go back again, / Stood challenger on mount of all the age / For her perfections. But my revenge will come.

It warms the very sickness in my heart / That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, / ‘Thus diest thou.’

I bought an unction of a mountebank / So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, / Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, / Collected from all simples that have virtue / Under the moon, can save the thing from death / This is but scratch’d withal.

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

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.

[_Aside._] And yet 'tis almost 'gainst my conscience.

It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain. / No medicine in the world can do thee good. / In thee there is not half an hour of life; / The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, / Unbated and envenom’d.