T he King’s to Blame

« Treachery! Seek it out.

LAERTES

It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain.

No medicine in the world can do thee good.

In thee there is not half an hour of life.

The treacherous instrument is in thy hand,

Unbated and envenomed. The foul practice

Hath turned itself on me. Lo, here I lie,

Never to rise again. Thy mother’s poisoned.

I can no more. The king, the king’s to blame. »