Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres,
Thy knotted and combined locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand on end,
Like quills upon the fretful porpentine...
Hamlet's father's ghost to Hamlet.
Hamlet resumes next Monday with the contemplation of time out of joint. The rest of the week will be devoted to News of the Tiny - my email is to the right if you have any for me.