1 My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.
2 Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
3 My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts.
4 That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs.
5 Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
6 Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.
7 Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.
8 So think thou wilt no second husband wed, But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.
9 So far he topp'd my thought That I in forgery of shapes and tricks, Come short of what he did.
10 Haste me to know't, that I, with wings as swift As meditation or the thoughts of love May sweep to my revenge.
11 I hop'd 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.
12 In what particular thought to work I know not; But in the gross and scope of my opinion, This bodes some strange eruption to our state.
13 I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in.
14 First, her father slain; Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Of his own just remove; the people muddied, Thick and and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers For good Polonius' death; and we have done but greenly In hugger-mugger to inter him.
15 Dread my lord, Your leave and favour to return to France, From whence though willingly I came to Denmark To show my duty in your coronation; Yet now I must confess, that duty done, My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France, And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.
16 Her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts, Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.
17 Her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts, Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.
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