Laertes, was your father dear to you?
or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart? ……….not that i think you did not love your fatherbut that i know love is begun by time, and that i see, in passages of proof, time qualifies the spark and fire of it. there lives within the very flame of lovea kind of wick or snuff that will abate it. and nothing is at a like goodness still. for goodness, growing to a pleurisy, dies in his own too-much. that we would do, we should do when we would, for this "would" changesand hath abatements and delays as many
houman naghibdec.23rd, 2011as there are tongues, are hands, are accidents. and then this "should" is like a spendthrift sighthat hurts by easing.—but to the quick of th' ulcer: hamlet comes back. what would you undertaketo show yourself in deed your father’s sonmore than in words?