He’s fat, and scant of breath. Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows: The queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.

Come, for the third, Laertes: you but dally; I pray you, pass with your best violence; I am afeard you make a wanton of me.

Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe, Osric; I am justly kill’d with mine own treachery.

No, no, the drink, the drink⁠—O my dear Hamlet⁠— The drink, the drink! I am poison’d. Dies.

O villany! Ho! let the door be lock’d: Treachery! Seek it out.