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Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings, You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure?
I am thy father's spirit;
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night;
But, soft! methinks I scent the morning air;
My hour is almost come,
Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time,
Shew his eyes, and grieve his heart;
Come like shadows, so depart.
Thou canst not say, I did it: never shake
Thy gory locks at me.
Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with!
Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too,-
Glendower. I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
Win her with gifts, if she respect not words;
More quick than words, do move a woman's mind.
Wear this for me; one out of suits with fortune;
She prizes not such trifles as these are:
The gifts, she looks from me, are pack'd and lock'd
Hamlet. I never gave you aught.
Ophelia. My honour'd lord, you know right well,
And, with them, words of so sweet breath compos'd
Rich gifts wax poor, when givers prove unkind.
Fat paunches have lean pates; and dainty bits
Which buys admittance; oft it doth; yea, and makes Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up
Their deer to the stand o' the stealer and 'tis gold
O thou sweet king-killer, and dear divorce
Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer,
That lies on Dian's lap! thou visible god,
And mak'st them kiss! that speak'st with every tongue,
Will lug your priests and servants from your sides;
Will knit and break religions; bless the accurs'd;
This is it,
That makes the wappen'd widow wed again;
For this, the foolish over-careful fathers
Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains
Their bones with industry.
That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith;
But the word maid,-cheats the poor maid of that.
There is thy gold; worse poison to men's souls,
How quickly nature
Falls to revolt, when gold becomes her object!
O, I cry your mercy :
There is my purse, to cure that blow of thine.
I have five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire I sav'd under your
When service should in my old limbs lie lame
O place and greatness, millions of false eyes
O place! O form!
How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit,
O, be sick, great Greatness,
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure!
Will it give place to flexure and low bending?
O hard condition! and twin-born with greatness,
Whose sense no more can feel but his own wringing!
O, it is excellent
To have a giant's strength: but it is tyrannous,
Great men may jest with saints: 'tis wit in them;
That in the captain's but a choleric word,
Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.
Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world,
Like a Colossus; and we petty men
Is now become a god; and Cassius is
A wretched creature, and must bend his body,