I have words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they much too light for the bore of the matter.

Laertes, was your father dear to you? / Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, / A face without a heart?

That we would do, / We should do when we would; for this ‘would’ changes, / And hath abatements and delays as many / As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents;

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.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, / And therefore I forbid my tears.

One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, / So fast they follow.

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.