And in the cup an union shall he throw / Richer than that which four successive kings / In Denmark’s crown have worn.

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.

Oh royal knavery! an exact command, / Larded with many several sorts of reasons, / Importing Denmark’s health, and England’s too, / With ho! such bugs and goblins in my life, / That on the supervise, no leisure bated, / No, not to stay the grinding of the axe, / My head should be struck off.

[_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.

Let four captains / Bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage, / For he was likely, had he been put on, / To have prov’d most royally; and for his passage, / The soldiers’ music and the rites of war / Speak loudly for him.

Since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is't to leave betimes?

So shall you hear / Of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts, / Of accidental judgements, casual slaughters, / Of deaths put on by cunning and forc’d cause, / And, in this upshot, purposes mistook / Fall’n on the inventors’ heads.

[_Aside._] It is the poison'd cup; it is too late.