Imatges de pÓgina

Enter Rosincrofse and Guildenstern.
Ham. Oh, ha! come some musick. Come the recorders.
For if the King like not the comedy;
Why then belike he likes it not perdy.
Come, some musick.

Guil. Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you.
Ham. Sir, a whole history.
Guil. The King, Sir ---
Ham. Ay Sir, what of him?
Guil. Is in his retirement, marvellous distemper’d--
Ham. With drink, Sir ?
Guil. No, my lord, with choler.

Ham. Your wisdom should shew it self more rich to signifie this to his doctor: for me to put him to bis purgation, would perhaps plunge him into more choler.

Guil. Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame, and start not so wildly from my affair.

Ham. I am tame, Şir, pronounce.

Guil. The Queen your mother, in most great affiction of spirit, hath sent me to you.

Ham. You are welcome.

Guil. Nay, good my lord, this courtesie is not of the right breed. If it Thall please you to make me a wholsom answer, I will do your mother's commandment; if not, your pardon, and my return shall be the end of my business.

Ham. Sir, I cannot.
Guil. What, my lord ?

Ham. Make you a wholsom answer : my wit's diseas’d. But, Sir, such answers as I can make, you shall command; or rather you say, my mother therefore no more but to the matter --my mother, you say

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Rof. Then thus she says; your behaviour hath struck her into amazement, and admiration.

Ham. Oh wonderful fon, that can fo astonish a mother. But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother-admiration ?

Rof. She desires to speak with you in her closer ere you go to bed.

Ham. We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us ?

Rof. My lord, you once did love me.
Ham. So I do still, by cbese pickers and stealers.

Rof Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? you do sarely bar the door of your own liberty, if you deny your griefs to your friend.

Ham. Sir, I lack advancement.

Rof. How can that be, when you have the voice of the King himself, for your succession in Denmark?

Ham. Ay, but while the grass grows ----the proverb is fomething musty.

Enter one with a Recorder. Oh the recorders, let me see one.

To withdraw with youwhy do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil ?

Guil. Oh my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly. Ham. I do not well understand that.

Will you play upon

this pipe ?

Guil. My lord, I cannot.
Ham. I pray you.
Guil. Believe me, I cannot.
Ham. I do beseech you.
Guil. I know no touch of it, my lord.
Ham. 'Tis as easie as lying ; govern these ventiges with your


fingers and thumb, give it breath with your mouih, and it will discourse most eloquent musick. Look you, these are the stops.

Guil. 'But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony, I have not the skill.

Ham. Why look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me; you would play upon me, you would seem to ftops ; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery, you would sound me from my lowest note, to the top of my compass; and there is much musick, excellent voice, in this little organ, et cannot you make it speak. Why do you think that I am easier to be plaid on than a pipe? call me what instrument you will, though you can fret'me, you cannot play upon me. God blefs


you, Sir.

Enter Polonius.

Pol. My lord, the Queen would speak with you, and presently.

Ham. Do you see yonder cloud, that's almost in shape of a Camel?

Pol. By the mass, and it's like a Camel indeed.
Ham. Methinks it is like an 't Ouzle.
Pol. It is black' like an Ouzle.
Ham. Or like a Whale?
Pol. Very like a Whale.

Ham. Then will I come to my mother by and by; they fool : me to the top of my bent. I will come by and by. Leave me

friends. I will say so. By and by is easily said. [Exeunt. ?Tis now the very witching time of night, When church-yards yawn, and hell it self breaths out Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on. Soft, now to my mother Oh heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever

The An Ouzle or Blackbird: it has been printed by mistake a Weesel, which is not black.

The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom ;
Let me be cruel, not unnatural;
I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites !



Enter King, Rosincrosse, and Guildenstern.
King. I like him not, nor stands it safe with us
To let his madness rage. Therefore prepare you;
I your commission will forthwith dispatch,
And he to England shall along with you.
The terms of our estate may not endure
Hazard so near us, as doth hourly grow
Out of his lunacies.

Guild. We will provide our felves ;
Most holy and religious fear it is,
To keep those many bodies safe, that live
And feed upon your majesty.

Rof. The single and peculiar life is bound
With all the strength and armour of the mind,
To keep it self from noyance; but much more,
That spirit, on whose 'weal depends and rests
The lives of many.

The decease of majesty
Dies not alone, but like a gulf doth draw
What's near it with it. It's a masly wheel
Fixt on the summit of the highest mount,
To whose huge spoaks ten thousand lesser things
Are mortiz'd and adjoin’d; which when it falls,
Each small annexment, petty consequence,
Attends the boistrous ruin. Ne'er alone
Did the King sigh, but with a general groan.

King. Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage;
Vol. VI.


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For we will fetters put upon this fear,
Which now goes too free-footed.
Both. We will halte us.

[Exeunt Gent. Enter Polonius.

vantage. Fare


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Pol. My lord, he's going to his mother's closet; Behind the arras I'll convey my self To hear the process. I'll warrant she'll tax him home. And as you said, and wisely was it said, 'Tis meet that fome more audience than a mother, (Since nature makes them partial,) should o’er-hear The speech of vantage. you


my liege,
I'll call upon you ere you go to bed,
And tell you what I know.
King. Thanks, dear


lord. my

offence is rank, it smells to heav'n, ' It hath the primal eldest curse upon't; • A brother's murther. Pray I cannot,

Though inclination be as sharp as will: * My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, * And like a man to double business bound, 'I stand in pause where I fhall first begin, ' And both neglect. What if this cursed hand < Were thicker than it self with brother's blood? • Is there not rain enough in the sweet heav'ns 'To wash it white as snow? whereto serves mercy, ' But to confront the visage of offence ? ' And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force, “To be fore-stalled ere we come to fall, ! Or pardon'd being down ? then I'll look

up. • My fault is past. But oh what form of prayer “Can serve my turn; Forgive me my foul murther! “That cannot be, since I am still posfest


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