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Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off, and let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark
You have no respect for me Hamlet.
"seems," madam? Nay, it is. I know not "seems". '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 'havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly. These indeed "seem," For they are actions that man might play. But I have that which passeth show, These but the trappings and suits of woe.
'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father. But you must know your father lost a father.
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