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Sergeant

As whence the sun 'gins his reflection,
Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break,
So from that spring, whence comfort seemed to come,
Discomfort swells. Mark, king of Scotland, mark.

Ross

The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict,
Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapped in proof,
Confronted him with self-comparisons,
Point against point, rebellious arm 'gainst arm,
Curbing his lavish spirit; and, to conclude,
The victory fell on us —

Laertes

For nature crescent does not grow alone
In thews and bulk, but as this temple waxes,
The inward service of the mind and soul
Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now,  
And now no soil nor cautel does besmirch
The virtue of his will. But you must fear,
His greatness weighed, his will is not his own
For he himself is subject to his birth.

Laertes

Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now,  
And now no soil nor cautel does besmirch
The virtue of his will. But you must fear,
His greatness weighed, his will is not his own
For he himself is subject to his birth.
He may not, as unvalued persons do, 
Carve for himself, for on his choice depends
The sanctity and health of this whole state; 
And therefore must his choice be circumscribed
Unto the voice and yielding of that body
Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you, 

Laertes

Then weigh what loss your honor may sustain, 
If with too credent ear you list his songs,
Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open
To his unmastered importunity.
Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister, 
And keep you in the rear of your affection,

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