Act IV

And so have I a noble father lost;

A sister driven into desperate terms,

Whose worth, if praises may go back again,

Stood challenger on mount of all the age

For her perfections: but my revenge will come.

Break not your sleeps for that: you must not think

That we are made of stuff so flat and dull

That we can let our beard be shook with danger

And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more:

I loved your father, and we love ourself;

And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine⁠—

Letters, my lord, from Hamlet:

This to your majesty; this to the queen.

From Hamlet! who brought them?

Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not:

They were given me by Claudio; he received them

Of him that brought them.

What should this mean? Are all the rest come back?

Or is it some abuse, and no such thing?

Know you the hand?