As e’er my conversation coped withal.
Horatio. O, my dear lord,—
Hamlet. Nay, do not think I flatter;
For what advancement may I hope from thee
That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits,
To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter’d?
No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee
Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice