1 The same, my lord, And your poor servant ever.
2 But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.
3 Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you.
4 Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears.
5 If't be so, Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong'd; His madness is poor Hamlet's enemy.
6 And now, good friends, As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers, Give me one poor request.
7 But long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death.
8 Purpose is but the slave to memory, Of violent birth, but poor validity: Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree, But fall unshaken when they mellow be.
9 So, gentlemen, With all my love I do commend me to you; And what so poor a man as Hamlet is May do t'express his love and friending to you, God willing, shall not lack.
10 O Hamlet, what a falling off was there, From me, whose love was of that dignity That it went hand in hand even with the vow I made to her in marriage; and to decline Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor To those of mine.
11 My honour'd lord, you know right well you did, And with them words of so sweet breath compos'd As made the things more rich; their perfume lost, Take these again; for to the noble mind Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
12 The great man down, you mark his favourite flies, The poor advanc'd makes friends of enemies; And hitherto doth love on fortune tend: For who not needs shall never lack a friend, And who in want a hollow friend doth try, Directly seasons him his enemy.