Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.

There’s something in his soul / O’er which his melancholy sits on brood, / And I do doubt the hatch and the disclose / Will be some danger,

Her father and myself, lawful espials, / Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing unseen, / We may of their encounter frankly judge,

The cease of majesty / Dies not alone; but like a gulf doth draw / What’s near it with it.

O'er whom his very madness, like some ore / Among a mineral of metals base, / Shows itself pure. He weeps for what is done.

For like the hectic in my blood he rages, / And thou must cure me.

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.

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.