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These indeed seem, for they are actions that a man might play; But I have that within which passeth show, these but the trappings and the suits of woe.
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, nor customary suits of solemn black, nor windy suspiration of forced breath, no, nor the fruitful river in the eye, nor the dejected savior of the visage, together with all forms, modes, shapes of grief, that can denote my truly.
'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, but you must know your father lost a father, that father lost, lost his, and the survivor found in filial obligation for some term to do obsequious sorrow. But to persever in obstinate condolement is a course of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief;
If it assume my noble father's person, I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape and bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, if you have hitherto conceal'd this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still; and whatsoever else shall hap tonight, give it an understanding, but no tongue. I will require your loves. So, fare you well. Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve, I'll visit you.
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