He is justly served; It is a poison temper’d by himself. Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet: Mine and my father’s death come not upon thee, Nor thine on me! Dies.

Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee. I am dead, Horatio. Wretched queen, adieu! You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That are but mutes or audience to this act, Had I but time⁠—as this fell sergeant, death, Is strict in his arrest⁠—O, I could tell you⁠— But let it be. Horatio, I am dead; Thou livest; report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied.

Never believe it: I am more an antique Roman than a Dane: Here’s yet some liquor left.