He shut his eyes, felt in his pocket, and held out to me in the palm of his hand two sixpences and a penny.
'What's that? Isn't it dust and ashes' (and the money flew on the floor). 'But you had better tell me, have you read Polezhaev?'
'Yes.'
'Have you seen Motchalov in Hamlet?'
'No, I haven't.'
'You've not seen him, not seen him!...' (And Karataev's face turned pale; his eyes strayed uneasily; he turned away; a faint spasm passed over his lips.) 'Ah, Motchalov, Motchalov! "To die--to sleep!"' he said in a thick voice:
'No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to; 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die--to sleep!'
'To sleep--to sleep,' he muttered several times.
'Tell me, please,' I began; but he went on with fire:
'Who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Nymph in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.'