Sure, he that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and godlike reason

To fust in us unus'd. Now, whether it be
Beastial oblivion, or some craven scruple
Of thinking too precisely 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 cause, and will, and strength, and means
To do't. Examples, gross as earth, exhort me:
Witness this army, of such mass and charge,
Led by a delicate and tender prince;
Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff'd,
Makes mouths at the invisible event;
Exposing what is mortal and unsure
To all that fortune, death, and danger dare,
Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be great
Is not to stir without great argument,
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw

When honour's at the stake. How stand I, then,
That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd,
Excitements of my reason and my blood,
And let all sleep? while, to my shame, I see
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 slain? O, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!

SCENE V. Elsinore. A room in the castle.

Enter Queen and HORATIO.

Queen. I will not speak with her.

Hor. She is importunate, indeed distract;

Her mood will needs be pitied.

Shakespeare, VI,

6

[Exit.

Queen.

What would she have?

Hor. She speaks much of her father; says she hears There's tricks i' the world; and hems, and beats her heart; Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt, That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing,

Yet the unshaped 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 gestures yield them
Indeed would make one think there might be thought,
Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.
'Twere good she were spoken with; for she may strew
Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.

Queen. Let her come in.

To my sick soul, as sin's true nature is,
Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss:
So full of artless jealousy is guilt,

It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Re-enter HORATIO, with OPHELIA.

[Exit Horatio.

Oph. Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?
Queen. How now Ophelia!

Oph.

How should I your true-love know

From another one?

By his cockle hat and staff,

And his sandal shoon.

Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?

Oph. Say you? nay, pray you, mark.

He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone;

At his head a grass-green turf,

At his heels a stone.

Queen. Nay, but, Ophelia,

[Sings.

[Sings.

Oph. Pray you,

mark.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,

[Sings.

With true-love showers.

King. How do you, pretty lady?

Oph. Well, God dild you! They say 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 you, let's have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this:

To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,

All in the morning betime,

And I a maid at your window,

To be your Valentine.

Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes,

And dupp'd the chamber-door;

Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.

King. Pretty Ophelia!

[Sings.

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

By Gis and by Saint Charity,

Alack, and fie for shame!

Young men will do't, if they come to❜t;

By cock, they are to blame.

Quoth she, before you tumbled me,

You promis'd me to wed.

So would I ha' done, by yonder sun,

An thou hadst not come to my bed.

King. How long hath she been thus?

[Sings.

Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be patient: but I cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him i' the cold ground. My brother shall know of it: and so I thank you for your good counsel.- Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night. [Exit.

King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.

[Exit Horatio.
O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs
All from her father's death. O Gertrude, Gertrude,
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalias! First, her father slain:
Next, your son gone; and he most violent author
Of his own just remove: the people mudded,

Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers,
For good Polonius' death; and we have done but greenly,
In hugger-mugger t' inter him: poor Ophelia
Divided from herself and her fair judgment,
Without the which we're pictures, or mere beasts:
Last, and as much containing as all these,
Her brother is in secret come from France;
Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds,
And wants not buzzers to infect his ear
With pestilent speeches of his father's death;
Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd,
Will nothing stick our person to arraign
In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this,
Like to a murdering-piece, in many places
Gives me superfluous death.

[A noise within.
Queen.
Alack, what noise is this?
King. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door.

What is the matter?

Gent.

Enter a Gentleman.

Save yourself, my lord:

The ocean, overpeering of his list,

Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste

Than young Laertes, in a riotous head,

O'erbears your officers. The rabble call him lord;

And, as the world were now but to begin,

Antiquity forgot, custom not known,
The ratifiers and props of every word,

They cry, "Choose we; Laertes shall be king!"

Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds, "Laertes shall be king, Laertes king!"

Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs!

King. The doors are broke.

[Noise within.

Enter LAERTES, armed; Danes following.

Laer. Where is this king?
Danes. No, let's come in.
Laer.

Danes. We will, we will.

I

Sirs, stand you all without.

pray you, give me leave. [They retire without the door. Laer. I thank you: keep the door. — O thou vile king, Give me my father!

Queen.

Calmly, good Laertes.

Laer. That drop of blood that's calm proclaims me bas

tard;

Cries cuckold to my father; brands the harlot

Even here, between the chaste unsmirchèd brows

Of my true mother.

King.

What's the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?

Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person:
There's such divinity doth hedge a king,

Tell me, Laertes,

That treason can but peep to what it would,
Acts little of his will.
Why thou art thus incens'd:
Speak, man.

let him go,

Gertrude:

Laer. Where is my father?

King.

Queen.

Dead.

But not by him.

King. Let him demand his fill.

Laer. How came he dead? I'll not be juggled with:
To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil!
Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit!
1 dare damnation: to this point I stand,
That both the worlds I give to negligence,