Poor Ophelia / Divided from herself and her fair judgement, / Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts.

Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself / She turns to favour and to prettiness.

Was’t Hamlet wrong’d Laertes? Never Hamlet. / If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away, / And when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes, / Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. / Who does it, then? His madness.

Horatio says ’tis but our fantasy, / And will not let belief take hold of him / Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us.

And then it started, like a guilty thing / Upon a fearful summons.

Most like. It harrows me with fear and wonder.

A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye.

For this relief much thanks. ’Tis bitter cold, / And I am sick at heart.

He took me by the wrist and held me hard; / Then goes he to the length of all his arm; / And with his other hand thus o'er his brow, / He falls to such perusal of my face / As he would draw it.

He rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound / As it did seem to shatter all his bulk / And end his being.