"The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmar".
Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul;
And there I see such black and grained spots
Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting,
That would not let me sleep: me thought I lay
Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly,
And praised be rashness for it, let us know,
Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,
When our deep plots do pall: and that should teach us
O, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!
I could be bounded in a nut shell and count
myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I
have bad dreams.