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When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions: first, her father slain;
Next, your read more
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions: first, her father slain;
Next, your son gone, and he most violent author
Of his own just remove; the people muddied,
Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers
For good Polonius' death, and we have done but greenly
In hugger-mugger to inter him; poor Ophelia
Divided from herself and her fair judgment,
Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts;
Last, and as much containing as all these,
Her brother is in secret come from France,
Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds,
And wants not buzzers to infect his ear
With pestilent speeches of his father's death,
Wherein necessity, of matter beggared,
Will nothing stick our person to arraign
In ear and ear.
The first blow is as much as two.
The first blow is as much as two.
For there's no motion
That tends to vice in man, but I affirm
It is the woman's read more
For there's no motion
That tends to vice in man, but I affirm
It is the woman's part.
The evening praises the day, and the morning a frost.
The evening praises the day, and the morning a frost.
Let the galled jade wince; our withers are unwrung.
Let the galled jade wince; our withers are unwrung.
Some had rather lose their friend then their Jest.
Some had rather lose their friend then their Jest.
The apprehension of approaching evil has hurried many into the
utmost danger.
The apprehension of approaching evil has hurried many into the
utmost danger.
Her very silence, and her patience,
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
Her very silence, and her patience,
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
