Like wonder-wounded hearers?—this is I,
Hamlet the Dane.
Laer.
(L., leaping from the grave.)
The devil take thy soul!
[Grappling with him.]
Ham. (R.C.)　　　　　　　　　　 Thou pray'st not well.
I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat;
For, though I am not splenetive and rash,
Yet have I in me something dangerous,
Which let thy wisdom fear: Hold off thy hand!
King. Pluck them asunder.
Queen. (C.)　　　　　　　　　　　　 Hamlet, Hamlet!
Ham. (R.C.) Why, I will fight with him upon this theme
Until my eyelids will no longer wag.
Queen. O my son, what theme?