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A little more than kin, and less than kind...
But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son-
But I have that within which passes show, These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
'Tis unmanly grief
O that this too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into dew!Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd his canon 'gainst self-slaughter!
O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect, a broken voice...
It was just a re-enactment...
I'll have grounds more relative than this - the play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.
To be, or not to be, that is the question...To die, to sleep - no more, and by sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to...
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