What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder me? Help, help, ho!

Nay, I know not: Is it the king?

A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother, As kill a king, and marry with his brother.

Ay, lady, ’twas my word. Lifts up the arras and discovers Polonius . Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune; Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger. Leave wringing of your hands: peace! sit you down, And let me wring your heart; for so I shall, If it be made of penetrable stuff, If damned custom have not brass’d it so That it be proof and bulwark against sense.

What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue In noise so rude against me?