Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

I’ve never fully trusted people who don’t like dogs. They rarely turn out well.

And so the Scots grew restless, moaning all the time as only they could.

The prince put the dagger on the table. “Sorry.” Yorick bent forward and looked up into his eyes. “Don’t forget our respective places here. I’m your clown. Your plaything. Your toy. Scarcely human. No need to apologise.

If you wanted reflections on the nature of the universe and your place in it, you should have stayed in school. You want fart noises and cock jokes, I’m your man.

What kind of love demands the life of another? A child at that?” “Danish love, my sweet. Can’t you smell it?

Where on earth do you get a rose in Elsinore in the middle of winter?” “Don’t you want it?” She took the flower from him, kissed his cheek. No bristles. No beard. A clean-shaven man with a kind and amiable face. Scheming. She didn’t doubt it. But he was a diplomat by training. It was only to be expected. And if he’d lacked those skills perhaps neither of them would have managed Old Hamlet’s death, the marriage, the succession so easily.