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A hell-hound that doth hunt us all to death: And the dire death of my poor sons and brothers? He should the bearers put to sudden death, All mortal consequences have pronounc'd me thus,-- This quarry cries on havoc.--O proud death, Go, bid the soldiers shoot. I fear no uncles dead. O, I die, Horatio; And call the noblest to the audience. These dead men's tombs. Told the sad story of my father's death, That in the sty of the most deadly boar And fall thy edgeless sword: despair, and die!-- And by opposing end them?--To die,--to sleep,-- O earth, which this blood drink'st, revenge his death!