Gra.—Can no prayers pierce thee?
Shy.—No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.
Gra.—Oh, be thou damned, inexorable dog,
And for thy life let justice be accused!
Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith,
To hold opinion with Pythagoras,
That souls of animals infuse themselves
Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit
Governed a wolf, who, hanged for human slaughter,
Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,
And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallowed dam,
Infused itself in thee; for thy desires
Are wolfish, bloody, starved, and ravenous.
Shy.—Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond,
Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud.
Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall
To cureless ruin.—I stand here for law.
14. Ham.—Now, mother, what's the matter?
Queen.—Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.
Ham.—Mother, you have my father much offended.
Queen.—Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.
Ham.—Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.
Queen.—Why, how now, Hamlet?