What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” “My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy it is then! Your constancy hath left you unattended.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears: But yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will: when these are gone, The woman will be out. — Adieu, my lord! I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, But that this folly drowns it.

Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.

a young woman in love always looks like patience on a monument smiling at grief

But I am constant as the Northern Star, Of whose true fixed and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament.

Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more.

Oh, I have passed a miserable night, so full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams!