In my opinion, "corruption and disease" is not a true motif - there is no unifying theme connecting all the references to corruption and disease.
For this relief much thanks: 'tis bitter cold,
And I am SICK at heart.
. . . and the moist star
Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands
Was SICK almost to doomsday with eclipse:
. . . .
Shall in the general censure take CORRUPTION
From that particular fault . . .
Something is ROTTEN in the state of Denmark.
That so his SICKNESS, age and impotence
Was falsely borne in hand
POLONIUS [reading Hamlet's love letter to Ophelia] (2,2,126-127)
'O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers;
I have not art to reckon my groans
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is SICKLIED o'er with the pale cast of thought,
PLAYER QUEEN (3,2,156-158)
So many journeys may the sun and moon
Make us again count o'er ere love be done!
But, woe is me, you are so SICK of late,
Sir, I cannot.
What, my lord?
Make you a wholesome answer; my wit's DISEASED . . .
Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
CONTAGION to this world: now could I drink hot blood,
And do such bitter business as the day
Would quake to look on.
. . . .
In the CORRUPTED currents of this world
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice,
And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law: but 'tis not so above . . .
This physic but prolongs thy SICKLY days.
Yea, this solidity and compound mass,
With tristful visage, as against the doom,
Is thought-SICK at the act.
Or but a SICKLY part of one true sense
O Hamlet, speak no more:
Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul;
And there I see such black and grained spots
As will not leave their tinct.
Nay, but to live
In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,
Stew'd in CORRUPTION, honeying and making love
Over the nasty sty,--
Mother, for love of grace,
Lay not that mattering unction to your soul,
That not your trespass, but my madness speaks:
It will but skin and film the ULCEROUS place,
Whilst rank CORRUPTION, mining all within,
. . . diseases desperate grown
By desperate appliance are relieved,
Or not at all.
Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats
Will not debate the question of this straw:
This is the imposthume of much wealth and peace,
That inward breaks, and shows no cause without
Why the man dies. I humbly thank you, sir.
To my SICK soul, as sin's true nature is,
Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss:
It warms the very SICKNESS in my heart,
How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he ROT?
I' faith, if he be not ROTTEN before he die--as we
have many POCKY corses now-a-days, that will scarce
hold the laying in--he will last you some eight year
or nine year: a tanner will last you nine year.
. . . But thou wouldst not think how ILL all's here
about my heart: but it is no matter.