lines lines liens

fear it ophelia, fear itm my dear sister. p.172

contagious blastments are most imminent. p. 173

youth to itself rebels, though noone else near. p. 173

a puffed and reckless libertine. p.175

make thy two eyes like starts start from their spheres p. 186

he seemed to find his way without his eyes,
For out o' doors he went without their help,
and to the last bended their light on me. p.201

as they fell out by time, by means and placed p.209
when i had seen this hot love on the wing. p.210


Though this be madness, yet there is mothod in't. p.214

how pregnant sometimes his replies are. p. 214

as the indifferent children of the earther. p.215

the spirit i have seen
may be the devil, and the devil hath power
t'assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps
out of my weakness and my melancholy,
as he is very potent with such spirits,
abuses me to dame me. p.236

blasted with exstacy. O woe is me
t'have seen what i have seen, see what i see. p. 245

here is metal more attractive. 100

it would cost you a groaning to take off my edge. 262.

i must be creul only to be kind. 286

we know what we are, but know not
what we may be.

Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies;
good night, good night.

By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight,
Till our scale turn the beam.

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray,
love, remember: and there is pansies. that's for thoughts.

There's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue
for you; and here's some for me: we may call it
herb-grace o' Sundays: O you must wear your rue with
a difference. There's a daisy: I would give you
some violets, but they withered all when my father
died: they say he made a good end,--

in my heart there was a kind of fighting,
That would not let me sleep

There's a divinity that shapes our ends


Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia


There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,

When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up;
Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indu'd
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.

Thou dost lie in't, to be in't and say it is thine: 'tis for
the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest.

Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead.