Imatges de pÓgina

Capt. Truly to speak it, and with no addition,
We go to gain a little patch of ground,
That hath in it no profit but the name.

To pay five ducats-five, I would not farm it ;
Nor will it yield to Norway, or the Pole,

A ranker rate, fhould it be fold in fee.

Ham. Why, then the Polack never will defend it.
Capt. Yes, 'tis already garrison'd.

Ham. Two thoufand fouls, and twenty thousand ducats, Will not debate the queftion of this ftraw;

This is th' impofthume of much wealth and peace,
That inward breaks, and fhews no caufe without
Why the man dies. I humbly thank you, Sir.
Capt. God b'w'ye, Sir.

Rof. Will't please you go, my Lord?

Ham. I'll be with you ftrait, go a little before.

Manet Hamlet.

How all occafions do inform against me,
And fpur my dull revenge? what is a man,
If his chief good and market of his time
Be but to fleep and feed? a beast, no more.
Sure, he that made us with fuch large discourse,
Looking before and after, gave us not

That capability and god-like reafon

To ruft in us unus'd. Now whether it be
Beftial oblivion, or fome craven fcruple

Of thinking too precifely on th' event,


(A thought, which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom, And ever three parts coward :) I do not know

Why yet I live to say this thing's to do;

Sith I have caufe, and will, and strength, and means

To do't. Examples, grofs as earth, exhort me ;
Witness this army of fuch mafs and charge,

Led by a delicate and tender Prince,
Whofe fpirit, with divine ambition puft,
Makes mouths at the invifible event;
Expofing what is mortal and unfüre


To all that fortune, death, and danger dare,
Ev'n for an egg-fhell. 'Tis not to be great,
Never to ftir without great argument;
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw,

When honour's at the ftake. How ftand I then,
That have a father kill'd, a mother ftain'd,
(Excitements of my reafon and my blood)
And let all fleep? while to my fhame, I fee
The imminent death of twenty thousand men ;
That for a fantasy and trick of fame

Go to their graves like beds; fight for a plot,
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,
Which is not tomb enough and continent

To hide the flain? O, then, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth. [Exit.

SCENE changes to a Palace.

Enter Queen, Horatio, and a Gentleman.

Queen. I

Will not speak with her.

Gent. She is importunate,

Indeed, diftract; her mood will needs be pitied.
Queen. What would fhe have?

Gent. She fpeaks much of her father; fays, the hears,
There's tricks i'th' world; and hems, and beats her heart;
Spurns enviously at ftraws; fpeaks things in doubt,
That carry but half fenfe; her fpeech is nothing,
Yet the unfhaped use of it doth move

The hearers to collection; they aim at it,

And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts; Which as her winks, and nods, and geftures yield them, Indeed, would make one think, there might be thought; Tho' nothing fure, yet much unhappily.

Ho.'Twere good she were spoken with, for fhe may ftrow Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds. Let her come in.

Queen. To my fick foul, as fin's true nature is,


Each toy feems prologue to fome great amifs;
So full of artless jealoufy is guilt,

It fpills itself, in fearing to be fpilt.

Enter Ophelia, diftracted.

Oph. Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark? Queen. How now, Ophelia?

Oph. How fhould I your true love know from another one? By his cockle hat and ftaff, and his fandal fhoon.

[Singing. Queen. Alas, fweet lady; what imports this fong? Oph. Say you? nay, pray you, mark.

He's dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone;
Abis head a grafs-green turf, at his heels a ftone.

Enter King.

Queen. Nay, but Ophelia

Oph. Pray you, mark.

White his froud as the mountain fnow.

Queen. Alas, look here, my Lord.

Oph. Larded all with fweet flowers:
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true love fhowers.

King. How do ye, pretty lady?

Oph. Well, God yield you! they fay, the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table! King. Conceit upon her father.

Oph. Pray, let us have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, fay you this:

To-morrow is St. Valentine's day, all in the morn betime,
And I a maid at your window, to be your Valentine.
Then up herofe, and don'd his cloaths, and dupt the chamber door ;
Let in the maid, that out a maid never departed more.

King. Pretty Ophelia !

Oph. Indeed, without an oath, I'll make an end on't.

By Gis, and by S. Charity,
Alack, and fy for shame!

Young men will do't, if they come to't,
By cock, they are to blame.
Quoth fhe, before you tumbled me,

You promis'd me to wed:

So would I ba' done, by jonder fun,
And thou hadst not come to my bed.

King. How long has fhe been thus ?

Oph. I hope, all will be well. We must be patients but I cannot chufe but weep, to think, they should lay him i'th' cold ground; my brother fhall know of it, and fo I thank you for your good counfel. Come, my coach good night, ladies; good night, fweet ladies; good night, good night.

King. Follow her clofe, give her good watch, I pray you;
[Exit Horatio.
This is the poifon of deep grief; it fprings
All from her father's death. O Gertrude Gertrude!
When forrows come, they come not fingle fpies,
But in battalions. First, her father flain;
Next your Son gone, and he most violent author
Of his own just remove; the people muddied,
Thick and unwholefome in their thoughts and whispers,
For good Polonius' death; (We've done but greenly,
In private to interr him ;) poor Ophelia,
Divided from herfelf, and her fair judgment;
(Without the which we're pictures, or mere beafts:)
Laft, and as much containing as all thefe,

Her brother is in fecret come from France:
Feeds on this wonder, keeps himself in clouds,
And wants not buzzers to infect his ear
With peftilent fpeeches of his father's death;
Wherein neceffity, of matter beggar'd,
Will nothing ftick our perfons to arraign
In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this,
Like to a murdering piece, in many places



Gives me fuperfluous death!

Queen. Alack! what noife is this?

Enter a Meffenger.

[A noife within.

King. Where are my Switzers? let them guard the door. What is the matter?

Mef. Save yourself, my Lord.

The ocean, over-peering of his lift,

Eats not the flats with more impetuous hafte,
Than young Laertes, in à riotous head,

O'er-bears your officers; the rabble call him Lord;
"And as the world were now but to begin,
Antiquity forgot, cuftom not known,

The ratifiers and props of every Ward; (27)
They cry, "Chufe we Laertes for our King."
Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the Clouds;
Laertes fhall be King, Laertes King!"

Queen. How chearfully on the falfe trail they cry! Oh, this is counter, you falfe Danish dogs.

[Noife within.


Enter Laertes, with a Party at the Door.

King. The doors are broke.

Laer. Where is this King? Sirs! stand you all without. All. No, let's come in.

(27) The Ratifiers and Props of ev'ry Word ;] The whole Tenour of the Context is fufficient to fhew, that this is a mistaken Reading. What can Antiquity and Cuftom, being the Props of Words, have to do with the Bufinefs in hand? Or what Idea is convey'd by it? Certainly, the Poet wrote;

The Railers and Props of ev'ry Ward;

The Meffenger is complaining, that the riotous Head had over-borne the King's Officers, and then fubjoins, that Antiquity and Custom were forgot, which were the Ratifiers and Props of every Ward, i. e. of every one of thofe Securities that Nature and Law place about the Perfon of a King. All this is rational and confequential. Mr. Warburton.


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