"Now I am alone.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,Could force his soul so to his own conceit That from her working all his visage wann'd,Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suitingWith 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 passionThat I have? He would drown the stage with tearsAnd cleave the general ear with horrid speech,Make mad the guilty and appal the free,Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed The very faculties of eyes and ears. "