1 This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head.
2 He takes her up, and declines his head upon her neck.
3 Put your bonnet to his right use; 'tis for the head.'
4 But, my lord, his Majesty bade me signify to you that he has laid a great wager on your head.
5 He tells me, my sweet queen, that he hath found The head and source of all your son's distemper.
6 For lo, his sword, Which was declining on the milky head Of reverend Priam, seem'd i th'air to stick.
7 O, treble woe Fall ten times treble on that cursed head Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense Depriv'd thee of.
8 My lord, I did; But answer made it none: yet once methought It lifted up it head, and did address Itself to motion, like as it would speak.
9 The ocean, overpeering of his list, Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, O'erbears your offices.
10 And this, I take it, Is the main motive of our preparations, The source of this our watch, and the chief head Of this post-haste and rummage in the land.
11 That done, he lets me go, And with his head over his shoulder turn'd He seem'd to find his way without his eyes, For out o doors he went without their help, And to the last bended their light on me.
12 Hamlet return'd shall know you are come home: We'll put on those shall praise your excellence, And set a double varnish on the fame The Frenchman gave you, bring you in fine together And wager on your heads.
13 So shall you hear Of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts, Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters, Of deaths put on by cunning and forc'd cause, And, in this upshot, purposes mistook Fall'n on the inventors' heads.
14 Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand, Of life, of crown, of queen at once dispatch'd: Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, Unhous'led, disappointed, unanel'd; No reckoning made, but sent to my account With all my imperfections on my head.
15 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.