Dearest father, I must across this page
Contend care with to con from thy fell lips
The craft insensible wrought you by, sage.
Perchance ’twas plot upon her; sick-sweet quips?
Fordo in gaberdine mine House’s name,
Withal tainting its womb thee now hast gain’d
Mother to play leman, sooth slubber’d lame.
So kindless was thy skill that Hell unchain’d.
Such incarnadine hands that shake the globes
Berattle not once a bairn, but betide
Twice to unfurl thine cygnet’s tatter’d robes.
Must it, amerced thus be, this patricide.
Sirrah, adventure my discretion? I,
Claudius, Hamlet I, would it for die.