How is it with you, lady?
Alas, how is’t with you,
that you do bend your eye on vacancy,
and with th’ incorporal air do hold discourse?
Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep,
and as the sleeping soldiers in th’ alarm
your bedded hair like life in excrements
start up and stand an end. O gentle son,
upon the heat and flame of thy distemper
sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?
On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares!
His form and cause conjoined, preaching to stones,
would make them capable. – Do not look upon me,
lest with this piteous action you convert
my stern effects. Then what I have to do
will want true color; tears perchance for blood.
To whom do you speak this?
Do you see nothing there?
Nothing at all; yet all that is I see.
Nor did you nothing hear?
No, nothing but ourselves.
Why, look you there! Look how it steals away!
My father, in his habit as he lived!
Look where he goes even now out the portal!
This is the very coinage of your brain.
This bodiless creation ecstasy
is very cunning in.
Hamlet, III iv