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

O'er whom his very madness, like some ore / Among a mineral of metals base, / Shows itself pure. He weeps for what is done.

O rose of May! / Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! / O heavens, is’t possible a young maid’s wits / Should be as mortal as an old man’s life?

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.