heart; for so I shall,
If it be made of penetrable stuff,
If damned custom have not brass'd it so
That it is
proof and bulwark against sense.
What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue
In noise so rude against me?
Such an act
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty,
Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose
fair forehead of an innocent love
And sets a blister there, makes marriage-vows
As false as dicers' oaths: O,
such a deed
As from the body of contraction plucks
The very soul, and sweet religion makes
of words: heaven's face doth glow:
Yea, this solidity and compound mass,
With tristful visage, as against
Is thought-sick at the act.
Ay me, what act,
That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?
Look here, upon this picture, and on this,
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
See, what a grace
was seated on this brow;
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and
A station like the herald Mercury
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
A combination and a
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man:
your husband. Look you now, what follows:
Here is your husband; like a mildew'd ear,
Blasting his wholesome
brother. Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor? Ha!
have you eyes?
You cannot call it love; for at your age
The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble,
waits upon the judgment: and what judgment
Would step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have,
could you not have motion; but sure, that sense
Is apoplex'd; for madness would not err,
Nor sense to ecstasy
was ne'er so thrall'd
But it reserved some quantity of choice,
To serve in such a difference. What devil
That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind?
Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,
hands or eyes, smelling sans all,
Or but a sickly part of one true sense
Could not so mope.
where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,
If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones,
To flaming youth let virtue
be as wax,
And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame
When the compulsive ardour gives the charge,
frost itself as actively doth burn
And reason panders will.
O Hamlet, speak no more:
Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul;
And there I see such black and
As will not leave their tinct.
Nay, but to live
In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,
Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making love
the nasty sty,
O, speak to me no more;
These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears;
No more, sweet Hamlet!
A murderer and a villain;
A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe
Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings;
cutpurse of the empire and the rule,
That from a shelf the precious diadem stole,
And put it in his pocket!
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