Guil. My honoured Lord!
Ros. My most dear Lord!
Ham. My excellent good friends. . . .
. . .
. . .
But in the beaten way of friendship, what makes you at Elsinore?
Ros. To visit you, my Lord; no other occasion.
Ham. . . . Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, come, deal justly with me: come, come; nay, speak.
. . .
Guil. My lord, we were sent for.
Ham. I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the King and Queen moult no feather. I have of late – but wherefore I know not – lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that
this goodly frame, the earth,
seems to me a sterile promontory;
this most excellent canopy, the air,
look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament,
this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,
why, it appears no other thing to me than
a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is a man!
how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty,
in form and moving how express and admirable,
in action how like an angel,
in apprehension how like a god!
the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!
And yet to me what is this quintessence of dust?
Man delights not me – no, nor woman neither,
though by your smiling you seem to say so.