O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Coul
d force his soul so to his own conceit That from her working all his visage wanned, Tears in his eyes, distraction in ’s aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing. For Hecuba! What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her? What would he do, Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have?
