It is here, Hamlet: Hamlet, thou art slain; No medicine in the world can do thee good; In thee there is not half an hour of life; The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, Unbated and envenom’d: the foul practice 320 Hath turn’d itself on me; lo, here I lie, Never to rise again: thy mother’s poison’d: I can no more:—the king, the king’s to blame.
