Hamlet

He came hither to his chamber, manuscript short finished.

Sat he quietly, for one good final passing of it, to test the merit of such a tale. Marking this encounter and his true love of it. Almost letting pass some doubtful phrases as common sense would make no matter of. But hold! Surely, some strange malady had taken him here. ‘Twas though his mind should whirl obscenely. Hiding well within a scene. Common only to the unlikeness of his finished work, the bard thus with an abject shrewdness moved yet again, through all words contrived there. Looked he twice and thrice upon these most wretched marks. What manner of tongue could further speak thus? What twisted state of mind had there been present at the scratching of this? What perturbed spirit had hung so close for the making of it? There! Couched in scene five, Horatio to Hamlet.

Knowing sure that it ‘twere good to have it spoken, he did read the pernicious evil aloud.

“Oh! Come on, give us a break. You really don’t need to bring back the dead, just to state the bleeding obvious.”

With his pen he did quickly expel it. Minding that it return to damnation from whence it came.

In place of it, and far more properly said, he wrote the immortal line.

‘There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave to tell us this.’

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