I bought an unction of a mountebank / So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, / Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, / Collected from all simples that have virtue / Under the moon, can save the thing from death / This is but scratch’d withal.

Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet. / Mine and my father’s death come not upon thee, / Nor thine on me.

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.

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.

It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there.

O villany! Ho! Let the door be lock’d: / Treachery! Seek it out.