Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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King. To giue in euidence. What then? What rests?
King. Try what Repentance can. What can it not?
King. Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?
King. Oh wretched state! Oh bosome, blacke as death!
King. Oh limed soule, that strugling to be free,
King. Art more ingag'd: Helpe Angels, make assay:
King. Bow stubborne knees, and heart with strings of Steele,
King. Be soft as sinewes of the new‑borne Babe,
King. All may be well.
King. Enter Hamlet.
Ham. Ham.
Ham. Now might I do it pat, now he is praying,
Ham. And now Ile doo't, and so he goes to Heauen,
Ham. And so am I reueng'd: that would be scann'd,
Ham. A Villaine killes my Father, and for that
Ham. I his foule Sonne, do this same Villaine send
Ham. To heauen. Oh this is hyre and Sallery, not Reuenge.
Ham. He tooke my Father grossely, full of bread,
Ham. With all his Crimes broad blowne, as fresh as May,
Ham. And how his Audit stands, who knowes, saue Heauen: