O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!
My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,
Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac’d,
No hat upon his head, his stockins fouled,
Ungart’red, and down-gyved to his ankle,
Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other,
And with a look so piteous in purport
As if he had been loosed out of hell
To speak of horrors—he comes before me.
He took me by the wrist, and held me hard,
Then goes he to the length of all his arm,
And with his other hand thus o’er his brow,
He falls to such perusal of my face
As ’a would draw it. Long stay’d he so.
At last, a little shaking of mine arm,
And thrice his head thus waving up and down,
He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk
And end his being. That done, he lets me go,
And with his head over his shoulder turn’d,
He seem’d to find his way without his eyes,
For out a’ doors he went without their helps,
And to the last bended their light on me.