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you and I behind an arras.
I'll board him presently.
O, give me leave.
How does my good Lord Hamlet?
Well, God-a-mercy.
Do you know me, my lord?
Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.
Not I, my lord!
Then I would
you were so honest a man.
- Honest, my lord?
- Ay, sir.
To be honest, as this world goes,
is to be
one man picked out of ten thousand.
That's very true, my lord.
For if the sun...
...breed maggots
in a dead dog,
being a god
kissing carrion.
- Have you a daughter?
- I have, my lord.
Let her not walk in the sun.
Friend, look to it.
What do you read, my lord?
Words, words, words...
What is the matter, my lord?
Between who?
I mean, the matter
that you read, my lord.
Slanders.
The satirical rogue says here,
that old men have gray beards,
that their faces are wrinkled,
that they have a plentiful lack of
wit, together with most weak hams.
All which though I most potently
believe,
yet I hold it not honesty
to have it thus set down.
For yourself, sir, shall grow
old, as I am,
if, like a crab,
you could go backward.
Will you walk out
of the air, my lord?
Into my grave?
Indeed, that is out of the air.
My honourable lord, I will most
humbly take my leave of you.
Cannot take from me anything I'll more
willingly part with, except my life.
Except my life...
Except my life.
- My honoured lord!
- My most dear lord!
My excellent good friends!
How dost thou, Guildenstern?
Ah, Rosencrantz! How do ye both?
As the indifferent children of
the earth.
Happy, in that we're not overhappy:
On Fortune's cap we're not the button.
Nor the soles of her shoe?
- Neither, my lord.
- What's the news?
None, my lord, but that
the world's grown honest.
Then is doomsday near.
But your news is not true.
But what have you deserved
at the hands of Fortune,
that she sends you to prison hither?
- Prison, my lord?
- Denmark's a prison.
Then is the world one.
A goodly one, in which there're many
confines, wards, and dungeons,
Denmark being one of the worst.
We think not so, my lord.
Why, then, 'tis none to you,
for there is nothing
either good or bad,
but thinking makes it so.
To me it is a prison.
Shall we to the court?
For, by my fay, I cannot reason.
We'll follow you
and wait upon you, Prince.
No such matter!
I am most dreadfully attended
by my servants lately.
But, in the beaten way of friendship,
what make you at Elsinore?
To visit you, my lord.
Beggar that I am, I am even poor in
thanks. But I thank you.
Were you not sent for?
Is it a free visitation?
Come, deal justly with me.
Come, come; nay, speak.
- What should we say, my lord?
- Why, anything, but to the purpose.
I know the good king and queen
have sent for you.
- To what end, my lord?
- That you must teach me.
But let me conjure you, by the rights
of our fellowship and love,
be even and direct with me:
Whether you were sent for, or no?
- My lord, we were sent for.
- I will tell you why.
So shall my anticipation
prevent your discovery,
and your secrecy to the king
and queen moult no feather.
I have of late -
but wherefore I know not -
lost all my mirth,
forgone all custom of exercises.
It goes so heavily with my disposition
that this goodly frame, the earth,
seems to me a sterile promontory,
this most excellent canopy, the air,
this brave overhanging firmament,
look you, this majestical roof
fretted with golden fire,
it appears no other thing to me than
a pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is man!
How noble in reason!
How infinite
in faculty!
In form and moving
how express and admirable!
In action how like an angel!
In apprehension how like a god!
The beauty of the world!
The paragon of animals!
And yet, to me, what is this
quintessence of dust?
Man delights not me,
no, nor woman neither,
though by your smiling
you seem to say so.
My lord, there was no such
stuff in my thoughts.
Why did you laugh, then, when I said
"man delights not me"

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