O heavy deed! It had been so with us, had we been there: His liberty is full of threats to all; To you yourself, to us, to every one. Alas, how shall this bloody deed be answer’d? It will be laid to us, whose providence Should have kept short, restrain’d and out of haunt, This mad young man: but so much was our love, We would not understand what was most fit; But, like the owner of a foul disease, To keep it from divulging, let it feed Even on the pith of Life. Where is he gone?

To draw apart the body he hath kill’d: O’er whom his very madness, like some ore Among a mineral of metals base, Shows itself pure; he weeps for what is done.

O Gertrude, come away! The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch, But we will ship him hence: and this vile deed We must, with all our majesty and skill, Both countenance and excuse. Ho, Guildenstern!