1 Tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart.
2 O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.
3 But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
4 I shall th'effect of this good lesson keep As watchman to my heart.
5 With all my heart; and it doth much content me To hear him so inclin'd.
6 Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.
7 But thou wouldst not think how ill all's here about my heart: but it is no matter.
8 O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom: Let me be cruel, not unnatural.
9 Give me that man That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee.
10 If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story.
11 Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain If with too credent ear you list his songs, Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open To his unmaster'd importunity.
12 Peace, sit you down, And let me wring your heart, for so I shall, If it be made of penetrable stuff; If damned custom have not braz'd it so, That it is proof and bulwark against sense.
13 Now must your conscience my acquittance seal, And you must put me in your heart for friend, Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear, That he which hath your noble father slain Pursu'd my life.
14 Madam, come; This gentle and unforc'd accord of Hamlet Sits smiling to my heart; in grace whereof, No jocund health that Denmark drinks today But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell, And the King's rouse the heaven shall bruit again, Re-speaking earthly thunder.
15 Full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round Neptune's salt wash and Tellus' orbed ground, And thirty dozen moons with borrow'd sheen About the world have times twelve thirties been, Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands Unite commutual in most sacred bands.
16 Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death The memory be green, and that it us befitted To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom To be contracted in one brow of woe; Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature That we with wisest sorrow think on him, Together with remembrance of ourselves.