Is this government of Britain's Isle, and this the royalty of Albion's King?

A ministering angel shall my sister be.

No visor does become black villainy so well as soft and tender flattery.

Art made tongue-tied by authority.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.

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.

She's gone. I am abused, and my relief must be to loathe her.