But now, my cousin Hamlet and my son

King
But now, my cousin Hamlet and my son—
Hamlet, aside
A little more than kin and less than kind.Paronomasia
King
How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
Hamlet
Not so, my lord; I am too much in the sun.Metaphors
Queen Gertrude
Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off,Anthimeria
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.Synecdoche
Do not forever with thy vailèd lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust.
Thou know’st ’tis common; all that lives must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.

Thou know’st ’tis common; all that lives must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.

Hamlet
Ay, madam, it is common.
Queen Gertrude
If it be,
Why seems it so particular with thee?
Hamlet
“Seems,” madam? Nay, it is. I know not “seems.”
’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,Anthimeria
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
MetaphorNo, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected havior of the visage,Anaphora
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly. These indeed “seem,”
For they are actions that a man might play;
But I have that within which passes show,
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.Hendiadys
King Claudius
’Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,Hendiadys
To give these mourning duties to your father.
But you must know your father lost a father,
That father lost, lost his,Anadiplosis and the survivor bound
In filial obligation for some term
To do obsequious sorrow. But to persever
In obstinate condolement is a course
Of impious stubbornness. ’Tis unmanly grief.
It shows a will most incorrect to heaven,
A heart unfortified, a mind impatient,
HendiadysAn understanding simple and unschooled.Synecdoche
For what we know must be and is as common
As any the most vulgar thing to sense,
Why should we in our peevish opposition
Take it to heart?Rhetorical Question Fie, ’tis a fault to heaven,
A fault against the dead, a fault to nature,Anaphora
To reason most absurd, whose common theme
Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried,
From the first corse till he that died today,
“This must be so.” We pray you, throw to earth
This unprevailing woe and think of us
As of a father; for let the world take note,
You are the most immediate to our throne,
And with no less nobility of love
Than that which dearest father bears his son
Do I impart toward you. For your intent
In going back to school in Wittenberg,
It is most retrograde to our desire,
And we beseech you, bend you to remain
Here in the cheer and comfort of our eye,Hendiadys
Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.