Queen. 
Ah me, what act,
That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?

Ham. 
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 command;
A station like the herald Mercury
New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill: 
A combination and a form, indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man;
This was your husband.—­Look you now what follows: 
Here is your husband, like a milldew’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,
And waits upon the judgment:  and what judgment
Would step from this to this?  Sense, sure, you have,
Else could you not have motion:  but sure that sense
Is apoplex’d; for madness would not err;
Nor sense to ecstacy was ne’er so thrall’d
But it reserv’d some quantity of choice
To serve in such a difference.  What devil was’t
That thus hath cozen’d you at hoodman-blind? 
Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,
Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,
Or but a sickly part of one true sense
Could not so mope. 
O shame! 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,
Since frost itself as actively doth burn,
And reason panders will.

Queen. 
O Hamlet, speak no more: 
Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul;
And there I see such black and grained spots
As will not leave their tinct.

Ham. 
Nay, but to live
In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,
Stew’d in corruption, honeying and making love
Over the nasty sty,—­

Queen. 
O, speak to me no more;
These words like daggers enter in mine ears;
No more, sweet Hamlet.

Ham. 
A murderer and a villain;
A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe
Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings;
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,
That from a shelf the precious diadem stole
And put it in his pocket!

Queen. 
No more.

Ham. 
A king of shreds and patches!—­

[Enter Ghost.]

Save me and hover o’er me with your wings,
You heavenly guards!—­What would your gracious figure?

Queen. 
Alas, he’s mad!

Ham. 
Do you not come your tardy son to chide,
That, laps’d in time and passion, lets go by
The important acting of your dread command? 
O, say!

Ghost. 
Do not forget.  This visitation
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. 
But, look, amazement on thy mother sits: 
O, step between her and her fighting soul,—­
Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works,—­
Speak to her, Hamlet.