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- But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son, —
- A little more than kin, less than kind.
- How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
- Not so, my lord; I am too much in the sun.
- noble father in the dust: thou know’st ‘tis common; all that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity.
- Good Hamlet, cast thy night Ed color off, and let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. Do not for ever with thy vailed lids seek for thy -
- Ay, madam, it is common.
- If it be, why seems it so particular with thee?
- nor windy suspiration of forced breath, no, nor the fruitful river in the eye, nor the dejected ‘havior of the visage, together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
- that can denote me truly: these indeed seem, for they are actions that a man might play: but I have that within which passeth show; these but the trappings and the suits of woe.
- Seems, madam! Nay it is; I know not ‘seems.’. ‘It’s not alone my inky cloak, good mother, nor customary suits of solemn black,
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