1 Here, sweet lord, at your service.
2 O, 'tis most sweet, When in one line two crafts directly meet.'
3 Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
4 O speak to me no more; These words like daggers enter in mine ears; No more, sweet Hamlet.
5 He tells me, my sweet queen, that he hath found The head and source of all your son's distemper.
6 O such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul, and sweet religion makes A rhapsody of words.
7 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.
8 In youth when I did love, did love, Methought it was very sweet; To contract, O, the time for, a, my behove, O methought there was nothing meet.
9 For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour, Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood; A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.
10 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.
11 I remember one said there were no sallets in the lines to make the matter savoury, nor no matter in the phrase that might indite the author of affectation, but called it an honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine.
12 Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father; But you must know, your father lost a father, That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound In filial obligation, for some term To do obsequious sorrow.