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Act 5 scene 1-2
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Her obsequies have been as far enlargedAs we have warranty. Her death was doubtful
No more be done.
Must there no more be done?
What ceremony else?
Lay her i' th' earth,And from her fair and unpolluted fleshMay violets spring! I tell thee, churlishpriest, A ministering angel shall my sister beWhen thou liest howling.
That is Laertes, a very noble youth, mark.
What, the fair Ophelia?
Sweets to the sweet. Farewell! I hoped thou shouldst have been myHamlet‟s wife.I thought thy bride-bed to have decked,sweet maid,And not have strewed thy grave.
Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead,Till of this flat a mountain you have made,T' o'ertop old Pelion or the skyish head Of blue Olympus
What is he whose griefBears such an emphasis, whose phrase ofsorrowConjures the wandering stars, and makesthem standLike wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,Hamlet the Dane
Thou pray‟st not well.I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat,For though I am not splenitive and rash,Yet have I something in me dangerous,Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thyhand.
Pluck them asunder.
Good my lord, be quiet.
O my son, what theme?
Why, I will fight with him upon thisthemeUntil my eyelids will no longer wag.
I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothersCould not with all their quantity of loveMake up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?
O, he is mad, Laertes.
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