Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

After Life's Fitful Fever He Sleeps Well. Treason Has Done His Worst. Nor Steel Nor Poison, Malice Domestic, Foreign Levy, Nothing Can Touch Him Further.

But Thou, Contracted To Thine Own Bright Eyes, Feed'st Thy Light's Flame With Self-substantial Fuel, Making A Famine Where Abundance Lies, Thyself Thy Foe, To Thy Sweet Self Too Cruel.

God Mark Thee To His Grace! Thou Was The Prettiest Babe That E'er I Nursed. And Might I Live To See Thee Married Once, I Have My Wish.

How Many Ages Hence Shall This Our Lofty Scene Be Acted Over In States Unborn And Accents Yet Unknown!

Rosencrantz My Lord, You Must Tell Us Where The Body Is, And Go With Us To The King. Hamlet The Body Is With The King, But The King Is Not With The Body. The King Is A Thing - Guildenstern A Thing My Lord? Hamlet Of Nothing. Bring Me To Him. Hide Fox, And All After!