Claudius: O' my offence is rank! It smells to heaven.
 It hath the primal eldest curse upon't,
A brother's murder. Pray can I not.

Claudius: Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy but to confront the visage of offence?

Claudius: And what's in prayer but this twofold force,
To be forestalled ere we come to fall,
Or pardoned being down? Then I'll look up...
We ourselves compelled even to the teeth and forehead of our faults 
To give in evidence. What then? What rests?
Try what repentance can. What can it not?
O wretched state, O bosom black as death,
O limed soul that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help angels! Make assay.
Bow, stubborn knees; and heart with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe.

Hamlet: Now might I do it pat, now he is praying...

Hamlet: And now I'll do it...

Hamlet: And so he goes to heaven...that would be scanned...

Hamlet: O, this is hire and salary, not revenge!
Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hint.

Claudius: My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.