King.
Have you your father's leave? What says Polonius?

Pol.
He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave
By laboursome petition; and at last
Upon his will I seal'd my hard consent:
I do beseech you, give him leave to go.

King.
Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine,
And thy best graces spend it at thy will!--
But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son--

Ham.
[Aside.] A little more than kin, and less than kind!

King.
How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

Ham.
Not so, my lord; I am too much i' the sun.

Queen.
Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off,
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do not for ever with thy vailed lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust:
Thou know'st 'tis common,--all that lives must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.