Ham. Why, as by lot, God wot-and then you know, it came to pass, as most like it was; the first row of the rubrick will fhew you more. For, look, where my abridgements come.

Enter four or five Players.

Y'are welcome, mafters, welcome all. I am glad to fee thee well; welcome, good friends. Oh! old friend! thy face is valanc'd, fince I faw thee laft: com'st thou to beard me in Denmark? What! my young lady and mistress? b'erlady, your ladyship is nearer heaven than when I saw you laft, by the altitude of a chioppine. Pray God, your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not crack'd within the ring.- Mafters, you are all welcome; we'll e'en to't like friendly faulconers, fly at any thing we fee; we'll have a fpeech ftraight. Come, give us a taste of your quality; come, a paffionate fpeech.

1 Play. What speech, my good Lord?

Ham. I heard thee speak me a fpeech once; but it was never acted: or if it was, not above once; for the play, I remember, pleas'd not the million, 'twas Caviar to the general; but it was. (as I received it, and others, whofe judgment in fuch matters cried in the top of mine) an excellent play; well digefted in the fcenes, fet down with as much modefty as cunning. I remember, one faid, there was no falt in the lines, to make the matter favoury; nor no matter in the phrafe, that might indite the author of affection; but call'd it, an honest method. One speech in it I chiefly lov'd; 'twas Æneas's tale to Dido; and thereabout of it especially, where he fpeaks of Priam's flaughter. If it live in your memory, begin at this line, let me fee, let me see -The rugged Pyrrhus, like th' Hyrcanian beast,- -It is not fo ; it begins with Pyrrhus.

The rugged Pyrrhus, he, whole fable arms,
Black as his purpofe, did the night resemble
When he lay couched in the ominous horse;
Hath now his dread and black complexion fmear'd

With heraldry more difmal; head to foot,
Now is he total gules; horridly trickt

With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, fons,
Bak'd and impafted with the parching fires,
That lend a tyrannous and damned light
To murders vile. Roafted in wrath and fire,
And thus o'er-fized with coagulate gore,
With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus
Old grandfire Priam feeks.

Pol. 'Fore God, my Lord, well spoken, with good accent, and good discretion.

1 Play. Anon he finds him,

Striking, too fhort, at Greeks. His antique fword,
Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls,
Repugnant to command; unequal match'd,
Pyrrhus at Priam drives, in rage strikes wide;
But with the whif and wind of his fell fword
Th' unnerved father falls. Then fenfelefs Ilium,
Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top
Stoops to his base; and with a hideous crafh
Takes prifoner Pyrrhus' ear. For lo, his fword,
Which was declining on the milky head
Of rev'rend Priam, feem'd i'th' air to stick :
So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood;
And, like a neutral to his will and matter,
Did nothing.

But as we often fee, against some storm,

A filence in the heav'ns, the rack stand still,
The bold winds fpeechlefs, and the orb below
As hufh as death: anon the dreadful thunder
Doth rend the region: So after Pyrrhus' pause,
A roufed vengeance fets him new a-work:
And never did the Cyclops' hammers fall
On Mars his armour, forg'd for proof eterne,
With less remorfe than Pyrrhus' bleeding fword
Now falls on Priam.-

Out, out, thou ftrumpet fortune! all you Gods,
In general fynod take away her power:
Break all the fpokes and fellies from her wheel,
And bowl the round nave down the hill of heav'n,

As low as to the fiends.

Pol. This is too long.

Ham. It fhall to th' barber's with your beard. Pr'ythee, fay on; he's for a jigg, or a tale of bawdry, or he fleeps. Say on, come to Hecuba.

1 Play. But who,oh! who,had feen the mobled Queen,Ham. The mobled Queen ?

Pol. That's good; mobled Queen, is good.

1 Play. Run bare-foot up and down, threatning the flames

With biffon rheum; a clout upon that head,
Where late the diadem stood; and for a robe
About her lank and all-o'er-teemed loins,
A blanket in th' alarm of fear caught up :
Who this had feen, with tongue in venom steep'd,
'Gainft fortune's ftate would treafon have pronounc'd:
But if the Gods themselves did see her then,
When the faw Pyrrhus make malicious sport
In mincing with his fword her husband's limbs;
The inftant burft of clamour that she made,
(Unless things mortal move them not at all)
Would have made milch the burning eyes of heav'n.
And paffion in the Gods.

Pol. Look, whe're he has not turn'd his colour, and has tears in's eyes. Pr'ythee, no more.

Ham. 'Tis well, I'll have thee speak out the rest of this foon. Good my Lord, will you fee the players well bestow'd? Do ye hear, let them be well us'd; for they are the abstract, and brief chroniclers of the time. After your death, you were better have a bad epitaph, than their ill report while you liv'd.

Pol. My Lord, I will use them according to their defert.

Ham. God's bodikins, man, much better. Ufe every man after his defert, and who fhall 'fcape whipping? ufe them after your own honour and dignity. The lefs they deferve, the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in.

Pol. Come, Sirs.

[Exit Polonius.

Ham.

Ham. Follow him, friends: we'll hear a play tomorrow. Doft thou hear me, old friend, can you play the murder of Gonzago?

Play. Ay, my Lord.

Ham. We'll ha't to-morrow-night. You could, for a need, ftudy a fpeech of fome dozen or fixteen lines, which I would set down, and infert in't? could ye not? Play. Ay, my Lord.

Ham. Very well. Follow that Lord, and, look, you: mock him not. My good friends, I'll leave you 'till night, you are welcome to Elfinoor.

Rof. Good

my Lord.

Manet Hamlet.

[Exeunt,

Ham. Ay, fo, God b'w'ye: now I am alone.
Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I !
Is it not monftrous that this player here,
'But in a fiction, in a dream of paffion,
Could force his foul fo to his own conceit,
That, from her working, all his visage warm'd:
Tears in his eyes, diftraction in his afpect,

A broken voice, and his whole function fuiting,
With forms, to his conceit ? and all for nothing?
For Hecuba?

What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,

That he should weep for her? what would he do,,
Had he the motive and the cue for paffion,

That I have? he would drown the stage with tears,,
And cleave the gen'ral ear with horrid speech,
Make mad the guilty, and appall the free;
Confound the ignorant, and amaze, indeed,
The very faculty of eyes and ears.- -Yet I,
A dull and muddy-mettled rafcal, peak,
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can fay nothing.no, not for a King,
Upon whofe property and moft dear life

A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward?
Who calls me villain, breaks my pate a-crofs,
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face?
Tweaks me by th' nofe, gives me the lye i'th' throat,

G 5

As deep as to the lungs ? who does me this?
Yet I fhould take it- -for it cannot be,
But I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall
To make oppreffion bitter; or, ere this,
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this flave's offal. Bloody, bawdy villain!
Remorfelefs, treacherous, letcherous, kindless villain !
Why, what an afs am I? this is moft brave,
That I, the fon of a dear father murder'd,
Prompted to my revenge by heav'n and hell,
Muft, like a whore, unpack my heart with words,
And fall a curfing like a very drab—(16)
A cullion,fy upon't! foh!-about, my brain!-
I've heard, that guilty creatures, at a play,
Have by the very cunning of the fcene
Been ftruck fo to the foul, that presently
They have proclaim'd their malefactions.

For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players
Play fomething like the murder of my father,
Before mine uncle. I'll obferve his looks;
I'll tent him to the quick; if he but blench,
I know my courfe. This fpirit, that I have feen,
May be the devil; and the devil hath power
T' affume a pleafing fhape; yea, and, perhaps,
Out of my weaknefs and my melancholy,
(As he is very potent with fuch spirits)
Abufes me to damn me. I'll have grounds
More relative than this: The play's the thing,
Wherein I'll catch the confcience of the King.

(16) And fall a curfing like a very Drab

[Exit.

A Stallion But why a Stallion? The two old Folio's have it, a Scullion: but that too is wrong. I am perfuaded, Shake-. Speare wrote as I have reformed the Text; a Cullion, i. e. a ftupid, heartless, faint-hearted, white-liver'd Fellow; one good for nothing, but curfing and talking big.

ACT