O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.

Leave wringing of your hands. Peace, sit you down, / And let me wring your heart, for so I shall, / If it be made of penetrable stuff;

These words like daggers enter in mine ears;

For ’tis the sport to have the enginer / Hoist with his own petard,

Look here upon this picture, and on this, / The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.

Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better.

Ecstasy! / My pulse as yours doth temperately keep time, / And makes as healthful music. It is not madness / That I have utter’d.

See what a grace was seated on this brow, / Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself, / An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, / A station like the herald Mercury / New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul / That not your trespass, but my madness speaks.