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That thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel,
Never did the Grecian muse of tragedy relate a tale so full of pity and terror, as is imparted by the Ghost. Every circumstance melts us with compassion; and with what horror do we hear him say!
But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
1 could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
Thy knotted and combined locks to part,
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine :
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood.
All that follows is solemn, sad, and deeply affecting.
Whatever in Hamlet belongs to the præ
ternatural, is perfectly fine; the rest of the play does not come within the subject of this chapter.
The ingenious criticism on the play of the Tempest, published in the Adventurer, has made it unnecessary to enlarge on that admirable piece, which alone would prove our author to have had a fertile, a sublime, and original genius.