1 For look where my abridgement comes.
2 But look, amazement on thy mother sits.
3 Follow that lord, and look you mock him not.
4 But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.
5 I'll observe his looks; I'll tent him to the quick.
6 If this should fail, And that our drift look through our bad performance.
7 He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.
8 But look, the morn in russet mantle clad, Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill.
9 Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
10 Now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on.
11 You were sent for; and there is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties have not craft enough to colour.
12 The very place puts toys of desperation, Without more motive, into every brain That looks so many fadoms to the sea And hears it roar beneath.
13 My lord, as I was sewing in my chamber, Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac'd, No hat upon his head, his stockings foul'd, Ungart'red, and down-gyved to his ankle, Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, And with a look so piteous in purport As if he had been loosed out of hell To speak of horrors, he comes before me.