No, no, the drink, the drink!—O my dear Hamlet! The drink, the drink! I am poisoned.
Treachery! Seek it out.
It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain. No medicine in the world can do thee good. In thee there is not half an hour of life. The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, Unbated and envenomed. The foul practice Hath turned itself on me. Lo, here I lie, Never to rise again. Thy mother’s poisoned. I can no more. The king, the king’s to blame.
Give them the foils, young Osric.—Cousin Hamlet, You know the wager?
He’s fat, and scant of breath.— Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows. The queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.
Part them! They are incensed.
You will lose this wager, my lord.
So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to ’t.
Yes, my lord, quite well. You’ve bet on the weaker fencer.
Another hit. What say you?
Nay, come, again.
That, on the view and knowing of these contents, Without debatement further, more or less, He should the bearers put to sudden death, Not shriving time allowed.
I do not think so. Since he went into France, I have been in continual practice. I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart. But it is no matter.