He is dead and gone, lady, / He is dead and gone, / At his head a grass green turf, / At his heels a stone.

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.

The Queen his mother / Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,— / My virtue or my plague, be it either which,— / She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul, / That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, / I could not but by her.

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

When in your motion you are hot and dry, / As make your bouts more violent to that end, / And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him / A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping, / If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck, / Our purpose may hold there.

the great love the general gender bear him, / Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, / Would like the spring that turneth wood to stone, / Convert his gyves to graces;

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.

I will, my lord; I pray you pardon me.

Horatio, I am dead, / Thou liv’st; report me and my cause aright / To the unsatisfied.

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