Act V

I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife;

I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet maid,

And not have strew’d thy grave.

Fall ten times treble on that cursed head,

Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense

Deprived thee of! Hold off the earth awhile,

Till I have caught her once more in mine arms:

Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead,

Till of this flat a mountain you have made,

To o’ertop old Pelion, or the skyish head

Of blue Olympus.