To our most valiant brother.

him.

So much for

Now for ourself, and for this time of meeting.
Thus much the business is: We have here writ
To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras, -
Who, impotent and bed-rid, scarcely hears
Of this his nephew's purpose, -to suppress
His further gait herein; in that the levies,
The lists, and full proportions, are all made
Out of his subject:and we here dispatch
You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltimand,
For bearers of this greeting to old Norway;
Giving to you no further personal power
To business with the king, more than the
Of these dilated articles allow.
Farewel; and let your haste commend your duty.
Cor. Vol. In that, and all things, will we shew
our duty.

Scope

King. We-doubt it nothing; heartily farewe}.
[Exeunt VOLTIMAND, and CORNELIUS.
And now, Laertes, what's the news with you?
You told us of some suit; What is't, Laertes?
You cannot speak of reason to the Daue,
And lose your voice: What would'st thou beg
Laertes,

That shall not be my offer, not thy asking?
The head is not more native to the heart,
The hand more instrumental to the mouth,
Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father.
What would'st thou have, Laertes?

Laer. My dread lord?

Your leave and favour to return to France; From whence though willingly I came to Denmark,

To shew my duty in your coronation;

Yet now, I must confefs, that duty done,

My thoughts and wishes bend again toward

Vol. VIII

France,

B

And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon. King. Have you your father's leave? What says Polonius?

Pol. He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave,

By laboursome petition; and, at last,
Upon his will I seal'd hard consent:
I do beseech you, give him leave to go.

my

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

And thy best graces: spend it at thy will.
But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son,
Ham. A little more than kin, and lefs than kind.

[Aside. King. How is it that the clouds still hang on

you?

Ham. Not so, my lord, I am too much i' the

sun.

Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour

off,

And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. Do not, for ever, with thy vailed lids

Seek for thy noble father in the dust:

Thou know'st, 'tis common; all, that live, must

die,

Passing through nature to eternity.

Ham. Ay, madam, it is common.
Queen. If it be,

Why seems it so particular with thee?

Ham. Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not

seems.

'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shews of grief,
That can denote me truly: These, indeed, seem,

For they are actions that a mán might play:
But I have that within, which passeth shew;
These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.
King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your
nature, llamlet,

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

To do obsequious sorrow: But to perséver
In obstinate condolement, is a course

Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief:
It shews a will most incorrect to heaven;
A heart unfortify'd, or mind impatient;
An understanding simple and unschool'd:

For what, we know, must be, and is as com

mon

As any the most vulgar thing to sense,
Why should we, in our peevish opposition,
Take it to heart? Fie! 'tis a fault to heaven,
A fault against the dead, a fault to nature,
To reason most absurd; whose common theme
Is death of fathers, and who still hath cry'd,
From the first corse, till he that died to-day,
This must be so. 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 no less nobility of love,

Than that which dearest father bears his son,
Do I impart toward you. For your intent
In going back to school in Wittenberg,
It is most retrograde to our desire:

And, we beseech you, bend you to remain
Here, in the cheer and comfort of our eye,
Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.
Queen. Let not thy mother lose her prayers,
Hamlet;

B &

!

I pray thee, stay with us, go not to Witten

berg.

Ham. I shall in all my best obey you, ma

dam.

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 smiling to my heart: in grace whereof,. No jocund health, that Denmark drinks to-day, But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell; And the king's rouse the heaven shall bruit again,

Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away. [Exeunt King, Queen, Lords, etc. PoL. and LAERT.

Ham. 0, that this too too solid flesh would melt,

Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O

God!

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on't! Q fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank, and grofs in

nature,

Possefs it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead!

not two:

nay, not so much,

So excellent a king; that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother,
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must I remember? why, she would hang on
him,

As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it, fed on: And yet, within a

month,

Let me not think on't; Frailty, thy name is

woman!

A little month; or ere those shoes were old, With which she follow'd my poor father's

body,

Like Niobe, all tears;

she,

why she, even

O heaven! a beast, that wants discourse of

reason,

Would have mourn'd longer,

my uncle,

marry'd with

My father's brother; but no brother; but no more like my

father,

Than I to Hercules: Within a month;

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,
She marry'd: O most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
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 see you well: Horatio, or I do forget myself.

Hor, The same, my lord, and your poor

servant ever.

Ilam, Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name with you.

And what make you from Wittenberg, Hora, tio?

Marcellus?

Mar. My good lord,

Ham, I am very glad to see you; good even,

sir.

ut what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?