the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls his kibe.—

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.

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.