Angels and ministers of grace defend us! / Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, / Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, / Be thy intents wicked or charitable, / Thou com’st in such a questionable shape / That I will speak to thee.

The dram of evil / Doth all the noble substance of a doubt / To his own scandal.

I am thy father’s spirit, / Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night, / And for the day confin’d to fast in fires, / Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature / Are burnt and purg’d away.

Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, / Unhous’led, disappointed, unanel’d; / No reckoning made, but sent to my account / With all my imperfections on my head.

O villain, villain, smiling damned villain!

I could a tale unfold whose lightest word / Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood, / Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, / Thy knotted and combined locks to part, / And each particular hair to stand on end / Like quills upon the fretful porpentine.

So lust, though to a radiant angel link’d, / Will sate itself in a celestial bed / And prey on garbage.

Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive / Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, / And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, / To prick and sting her.

Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

My lord, as I was sewing in my chamber, / Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac'd, / No hat upon his head, his stockings foul'd, / Ungart'red, and down-gyved to his ankle, / Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, / And with a look so piteous in purport / As if he had been loosed out of hell / To speak of horrors, he comes before me.