Act 1, Scene 1
...
HAMLET
If thou hast any sound or use of voice
Speak to me.
If there be any good thing to be done
That may to thee do ease and grace to me,
Speak to me.
If thou art privy to thy country’s fate
Which happily foreknowing may avoid,
O, speak,.
Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life
Extorted treasure in the womb of earth—
For which they say your spirits oft walk in death—
Speak of it, stay and speak. The cock crows.
Stop it, Marcelus!
...
MARCELUS
It faded on the crowing of the cock.
...
...
GHOST
...List, list, O, list,
If thou didst ever thy dear father love–
HAMLET
O God!
GHOST
– Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder!
HAMLET
Murder!
GHOST
Murder most foul – as in the best it is–
But this most foul, strange and unnatural.
HAMLET
Haste me to know’t, that I with wings as swift
As meditation or the thoughts of love,
May sweep to my revenge.
GHOST
I find thee apt;
And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed
That roots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,
Wouldst thou not stir in this...
...
Act 3, Scene 4
...
QUEEN
To whom do you speak this?
HAMLET
Do you see nothing there?
QUEEN
Nothing at all, yet all that is I see.
HAMLET
Nor did you nothing hear?
QUEEN
No, nothing but ourselves.”
...
Act 4, Scene 5
...
OPHELIA
There’s rosemary: that's for remembrance.
Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies: that's
for thoughts.
LAERTES
A document in madness – thoughts and remembrance fitted!
OPHELIA
There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue
for you, and here's some for me. We may call it
herb of grace o’ Sundays. You may wear your rue with
a difference. There's a daisy. I would give you
some violets, but they withered all when my father
died. They say ‘a made a good end.
Sings
For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
LAERTES
Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself
She turns to favour and to prettiness.
...
Act 4, Scene 7
...
QUEEN
There is a willow grows askant the brook
That shows his hoary leaves in the glassy stream.
Therewith fantastic garlands did she make
Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them.
There on the pendent boughs her crownet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke,
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide
And mermaid-like awhile they bore her up,
Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and endued:
Unto that element. But long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
...
