To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, / Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss. / So full of artless jealousy is guilt, / It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

There’s such divinity doth hedge a king, / That treason can but peep to what it would, / Acts little of his will.—

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.

They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy.

I have words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they much too light for the bore of the matter.

Laertes, was your father dear to you? / Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, / A face without a heart?

I will work him / To an exploit, now ripe in my device, / Under the which he shall not choose but fall; / And for his death no wind shall breathe, / But even his mother shall uncharge the practice / And call it accident.

Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come.

Our indiscretion sometime serves us well, / When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us / There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, / Rough-hew them how we will.