He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave By laboursome petition, and at last Upon his will I seal’d my hard consent: I do beseech you, give him leave to go.

Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will! But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son⁠—

Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust: Thou know’st ’tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.

If it be, Why seems it so particular with thee?