Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost.

My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent.

Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.

How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, to drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears.