“I yet beseech your majesty,--If for I want that glib and oily art,To speak and purpose not; since what I well intend,I'll do't before I speak,--that you make knownIt is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness,No unchaste action, or dishonour'd step,That hath deprived me of your grace and favour;But even for want of that for which I am richer,A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongueAs I am glad I have not, though not to have itHath lost me in your liking.”

“There's some ill planet reigns:I must be patient till the heavens lookWith an aspect more favourable. Good my lords,I am not prone to weeping, as our sexCommonly are; the want of which vain dewPerchance shall dry your pities: but I haveThat honourable grief lodged here which burnsWorse than tears drown: beseech you all, my lords,With thoughts so qualified as your charitiesShall best instruct you, measure me; and soThe king's will be perform'd!”

“I am your wife if you will marry me. If not, I'll die your maid. To be your fellow You may deny me, but I'll be your servant Whether you will or no.”

“What do I fear? Myself? There’s none else by.Richard loves Richard; that is, I and I.Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am.Then fly! What, from myself? Great reason why:Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself?Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any goodThat I myself have done unto myself?O, no! Alas, I rather hate myselfFor hateful deeds committed by myself.I am a villain. Yet I lie. I am not.Fool, of thyself speak well. Fool, do not flatter:My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,And every tongue brings in a several tale,And every tale condemns me for a villain.Perjury, perjury, in the highest degree;Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree;All several sins, all used in each degree,Throng to the bar, crying all, “Guilty! guilty!”I shall despair. There is no creature loves me,And if I die no soul will pity me.And wherefore should they, since that I myselfFind in myself no pity to myself?”

“I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe?GUILDENSTERN: My lord, I cannot.HAMLET: I pray you.GUILDENSTERN: Believe me, I cannot.HAMLET: I do beseech you.GUILDENSTERN: I know no touch of it, my lord.HAMLET: It is as easy as lying. Govern these ventages with our fingers and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.GUILDENSTERN: But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony. I have not the skill.HAMLET: Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me, you would seem to know my stops, you would pluck out the heart of my mystery, you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass, and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.”

“In sooth, I know not why I am so sad:It wearies me; you say it wearies you;But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,I am to learn;And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,That I have much ado to know myself.”

“Let me hear you speak farther. I have spirit to do anything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit.”