HAMLET: Now I am alone.
Oh what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
Look how this player here could force his soul with fake feelings, in a work of fiction!
He grew pale, shed real tears, became overwhelmed, his voice breaking with feeling and his whole being, even, meeting the needs of his act—and all for nothing.
What’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba, that he should weep for her?
What would he do, had he the motive and cue for passion that I have?