Imatges de pàgina
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Out of his fubjects: and we here dispatch
You, good Cornelius, and you Voltimand,
For bearers of this greeting to old Norway;
Giving to you no further perfonal power
To bufinefs with the King, more than the scope
Which thefe dilated articles allow.

Farewel, and let your hafte commend your duty.
Vol. In that, and all things, will we fhew our duty.
King. We doubt it nothing; heartily farewel.

[Exeunt Voltimand and Cornelius.
And now, Laertes, what's the news with you?
You told us of fome fuit. What is't, Laertes?
You cannot speak of reason to the Dane,

And lofe your voice. What would'ft thou beg, Laertes,
That shall not be my offer, not thy asking?
The head is not more native to the heart,
The hand more inftrumental to the mouth,
Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father.
What wouldst thou have, Laertes?

Laer. My dread lord,

Your leave and favour to return to France;
From whence, though willingly I came to Denmark
To fhew my duty in your coronation ;

Yet now I must confefs, that duty done,

My thoughts and wishes bend again tow'rd France:
And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.
King. Have
you your father's leave? what fays Polonius?
Pol. He hath, my lord, by labourfome petition,
Wrung from me my flow leave; and, at the laft,
Upon his will I feal'd my hard confent.

I do beseech you, give him leave to go.

King. Take thy fair hour, Laertes, time be thine; (2)

This is the Pointing

(2) Take thy fair hour, Laertes, time be thine, And thy fair Graces; Spend it at thy Will.] in both Mr. Pope's Editions; but the Poet's Meaning is loft by it, and the Clofe of the Sentence miferably flattened. The Pointing, İ have restored, is that of the beft Copies; and the Senfe this; "You << have my Leave to go, Laertes; make the fairest Uie you please of your Time, and fpend it at your Will with the fairest Graces you "are Mafter of."

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And

And thy best graces fpend it at thy will.
But now, my coufin Hamlet, and my fon
Ham. A little more than kin, and less than kind.

[Afide,
King. How is it that the clouds ftill hang on you?
Ham. Not fo, my Lord, I am too much i'th' fun.
Queen. Good Hamlet, caft thy nighted colour off,
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do not, for ever, with thy veiled lids,
Seek for thy noble father in the duft;

Thou know'ft, 'tis common: all, that live, muft die; Paffing through nature to eternity.

Ham. Ay, Madam, it is common.

Queen. If it be,

Why feems it fo particular with thee?

Ham. Seems, Madam? nay, it is; I know not feems: 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,

Nor customary fuits of folemn black,
Nor windy fufpiration of forc'd breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'haviour of the vifage,
Together with all forms, moods, fhews of grief,
That can denote me truly. These indeed feem,
For they are actions that a man might play;
But I have that within, which paffeth fhew:
These, but the trappings, and the fuits of woe.
King. "Tis fweet and commendable in your nature,
Hamlet,

To give these mourning duties to your father:
But you must know, your father loft a father;
That father loft, loft, his; and the furviver bound
In filial obligation, for fome term,

To do obfequious forrow. But to perfevere
In obftinate condolement, is a courfe
Of impious stubbornnefs, unmanly grief.
It fhews a will most incorrect to heav'n,
A heart unfortify'd, a mind impatient,
An understanding fimple, and unfchool'd:-
For, what we know must be, and is as common

As

As any the most vulgar thing to fenfe,
Why should we, in our peevish oppofition,
Take it to heart? fie! 'tis fault to heav'n,
A fault against the dead, a fault to nature,
To reafon moft abfurd; whofe common theam
Is death of fathers, and who ftill hath cry'd,
From the first coarse, 'till he that died to-day,
This must be fo." 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't no lefs nobility of love, (3)
Than that which dearest father bears his son,
Do I impart tow'rd you. For your intent
In going back to fchool to Wittenberg,
It is most retrograde to our defire :
And we beseech you, bend you to remain
Here in the cheer and comfort of our eye,
Our chiefeft courtier, coufin, and our fon.
Queen. Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet :
I pr'ythee, ftay with us, go not to Wittenberg.
Ham. I fhall in all my beft obey you, Madam.
King. Why, 'tis a loving, and a fair reply;
Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come;
This gentle and unforc'd accord of Hamlet
Sits fmiling to my heart, in grace whereof
No jocund health, that Denmark drinks to-day,
But the great cannon to the clouds fhall tell;
And the King's rowse the heav'n fhall bruit again,
Re-fpeaking earthly thunder. Come away. [Exeunt.

(3) And with no lefs Nobility of Love,

Than that which dearest Father bears his Son,

Do I impart towards you,] But what does the King impart? We want the Subftantive governed of the Verb. The King had declared Hamlet his immediate Succeffor; and with that Declaration, he muft mean, he imparts to him as noble a Love, as ever fond Father tendered to his own Son. I have ventured to make the Text conform with this Senfe.

Manet

Manet Hamlet.

Ham. Oh, that this too-too-solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and refolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlafting had not fix'd (4)
His canon 'gainft felf-flaughter! O God! oh God!
How weary, ftale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the ufes of this world!
Fie on't! oh fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,

That grows to feed; things rank, and grofs in nature,
Poffefs it merely. That it should come to this!
But two months dead! nay, not fo much; not two ;-
So excellent a King, that was, to this,

Hyperion to a fatyr: fo loving to my mother, (5)

(4) Or that the Everlafting bad not fix'd

His Cannon 'gainst Self-Slaughter !] The Generality of the Edi tions read thus, as if the Poet's Thought were, Or that the Almighty bad not planted his Artillery, his Refentment, or Arms of Vengeance, against Self-Murder. But the Word, which I restored to the Text, (and which was efpoufed by the accurate Mr. Hughes, who gave an Edition of this Play ;) is the Poet's true Reading. i. e. That he had not refrain'd Suicide by bis exprefs Law, and peremptory Prohibition. Miftakes are perpetually made in the old Editions of our Poet, be twixt those two Words, Cannon and Canon.

(5)

So loving to my Mother, That be permitted not the Winds of Heav'n

Vifit her Face too roughly.] This is a fophifticated Reading, copied from the Players in fome of the modern Editions, for Want of Understanding the Poet, whofe Text is corrupt in the old Impreffions: All of which that I have had the fortune to fee, concur in reading;

So loving to my Mother,

That he might not beteene the Winds of Heav'n
Vifit ber Face too roughly.

Beteene is a Corruption without doubt, but not fo inveterate a one, but that, by the Change of a fingle Letter, and the Separation of two Words mistakingly jumbled together, I am verily perfuaded, I have retrieved the Poet's Reading.- -That he might not let e'en

the Winds of Heav'n, &c.

That

That he might not let e'en the winds of heav'n
Vifit her face too roughly. Heav'n and earth!
Muft I remember?why, fhe would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown

By what it fed on; yet, within a month,
Let me not think-Frailty, thy name is woman!
A little month! or ere thofe fhoes were old,
With which the follow'd my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears-Why fhe, ev'n fhe,-

(O heav'n! a beaft, that wants difcourfe of reason,
Would have mourn'd longer-) married with mine uncle,
My father's brother; but no more like my father,
Than I to Hercules. Within a month!.

Ere yet the falt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flufhing in her gauled eyes,
She married. Oh, moft wicked speed, to poft
With fuch dexterity to inceftuous theets!
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.

But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

Enter Horatio, Bernardo, and Marcellus.

Hor. Hail to your lordship!

Ham. I am glad to fee you well;

Horatio,or I do forget myfelf?

Hor. The fame, my lord, and your poor fervant ever. Ham. Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name with

you:

And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?
Marcellus!

Mar. My good lord

Ham. I am very glad to fee you; good even, Sir. But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg? ̧ Hor. A truant difpofition, good my lord. Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so; Nor fhall you do mine ear that violence, To make it trufter of your own report Against yourself. I know, you are no truant ; But, what is your affair in Elfinoor? We'll teach you to drink deep, ere you depart.

Hor.

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