HAMLET.
[Advancing.]
What is he whose grief
Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures the wand’ring stars, and makes them stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,
Hamlet the Dane.
[Leaps into the grave.]
LAERTES.
[Grappling with him.] The devil take thy soul!
HAMLET.
Thou pray’st not well.
I prithee take thy fingers from my throat;
For though I am not splenative and rash,
Yet have I in me something dangerous,
Which let thy wiseness fear. Away thy hand!
KING.
Pluck them asunder.
QUEEN.
Hamlet! Hamlet!
All.
Gentlemen!
HORATIO.
Good my lord, be quiet.
[The Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave.]
HAMLET.
Why, I will fight with him upon this theme
Until my eyelids will no longer wag.
QUEEN.
O my son, what theme?