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SCENE II.-The same. A Roon of State
in the Castle.
Enter the KING, QUEEN, HAMLET, POLONIUS, LAERTES,
VOLTIMAND, CORNELIUS, and Lords Attendant. King. Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's
death The memory be green ; and that it us befitted To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole king
dom To be contracted in one brow of woe; Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature, That we with wisest sorrow think on him, Together with remembrance of ourselves. Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen, The imperial jointress of this warlike state, Have we, as 'twere, with a defeated joy,With one auspicious and one dropping eye, With mirth in funeral, and with dirge in mar
riage, In equal scale weighing delight and dole, Taken to wife : nor have we herein burr'd Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone With this affair along :--for all, our thanks. Now follows, that you know, young Fortin
bras, Holding a weak supposal of our worth; Or thinking, by our late dear brother's death, Our state to be disjoint and out of frame, Colleaguèd with the dream of his advantage,He hath not fail'd to pester us with message, Importing the surrender of those lands Lost by his father, with all bonds of law, To our most valiant brother,-So much for him.
Now for ourself, and for this time of meeting.
duty. Cor., Vol. In that, and all things, will we
show our duty. king. We doubt it nothing; heartily farewell.
[E.reunt VOLTIMAND and CORNELIUS.
Dread my lord, Your leave and favour to return to France ; From whence though willingly I came to Den
mark, To show my duty in your coronation ; Yet now, I must confess, that duty done,
My thoughts and wishes bend again towards
France, 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 my hard consent I do beseech you, give him leave to go. 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. [aside.] A little more than kin, and
less than kind. King. How is it that the clouds still hang on
Ham. Not so, my lord, I am too much i' the
Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nightly 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 lives must
Ham. Ay, madam, it is common.
If it be,
not seems. 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
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 shows a will most incorrect to heaven; A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, An understanding simple and unschool'd : For what, we know, must be, and is as common 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 to fathers, and who still hath cried, 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 towards you. For your intent
In going back to school in Wittenberg,
King. Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply ; Be as ourself in Denmark.—Madam, come; This gentle and unforced 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, &C., POLONIUS,
and LAERTES. Ham. O, 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 Seems to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank, and gross in
nature, Possess it merely. That it should come to this ! But two months dead !-nay, not so much, not 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