All The World's A Grave, Queen monologue—Act 4, Scene VII



It will be laid to us, whose providence

Should have kept short, restrained and out of haunt,

This mad young man: but so much was our love,

We would not understand what was most fit;

But, like the owner of a foul disease,

To keep it from divulging, let it feed

Even on the pith of Life.  Come, let's not weep. 

A mother's hand shall right a mother's wrong. 

Weep not,  for all the grace that I have left

Is that I will not add to his damnation. 

Young Hamlet is my son, and he is lost.

Should I forget my son's  eternal soul? 

(Queen loses her hair)

Or that these hands could so redeem my son,

As they have given these hairs their liberty? 

His soul to heaven; his blood upon my head.