I must be cruel, only to be kind: / Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.

O Hamlet, speak no more. / Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul, / And there I see such black and grained spots / As will not leave their tinct.

Do not forget. This visitation / Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.

How now? A rat? [_Draws._] / Dead for a ducat, dead!

Here is your husband, like a mildew’d ear / Blasting his wholesome brother.

A bloody deed. Almost as bad, good mother, / As kill a king and marry with his brother.

You are the Queen, your husband’s brother’s wife, / And, would it were not so. You are my mother.

Come, come, and sit you down, you shall not budge. / You go not till I set you up a glass / Where you may see the inmost part of you.

Assume a virtue, if you have it not.

Such an act / That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, / Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose / From the fair forehead of an innocent love, / And sets a blister there.