Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! Why does the drum come hither? March within.

What is it ye would see? If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.

This quarry cries on havoc. O proud death, What feast is toward in thine eternal cell, That thou so many princes at a shot So bloodily hast struck?

The sight is dismal; And our affairs from England come too late: The ears are senseless that should give us hearing, To tell him his commandment is fulfill’d, That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead: Where should we have our thanks?