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- I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry.
There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. Why do you weep so oft, and beat your breast, Wherefore was that cry? Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, You live that shall cry woe for this hereafter. They cry 'Choose we! Laertes shall be king!' O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. We cannot without circumstance descry. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; That I have? He would drown the stage with tears Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans: