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O Gertrude, come away!The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch,But we will ship him hence: and this vile deedWe must, with all our majesty and skill,Both countenance and excuse. Ho, Guildenstern!Friends both, go join you with some further aid:Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain,And from his mother's closet hath he dragg'd him:Go seek him out; speak fair, and bring the bodyInto the chapel. I pray you, haste in this.Come, Gertrude, we'll call up our wisest friends;And let them know, both what we mean to do,And what's untimely done...Whose whisper o'er the world's diameter,As level as the cannon to his blank,Transports his poison'd shot, may miss our name,And hit the woundless air. O, come away!My soul is full of discord and dismay.