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Bestial 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, grofs as earth, exhort me; Witness this army of such mass and charge, Led by a delicate and tender Prince, Whose spirit, with divine ambition pust, Makes mouths at the invisible event; Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death, and danger dare, Ev’n for an egg-shell. 'Tis not to be great, Never to stir without great argument; But greatly to find quarrel in a straw, When Honour's at the flake. How stand I then, That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd, (Excitements of my reason and my blood) And let all fleep? 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, then, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth,
Changes to a Palace.
Gent. She is importunate,
Queen. What would she have ?
hears, There's tricks i' th' 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; Tho' nothing sure, yet much unhappily.
Hor. 'Twere good she were spoken with, for the
Queen. To my fick soul, as fin's true nature is,
Enler Ophelia, distracted.
By his cockle hat and staff, and his fandal shoonv.
(Singing. Queen. Alas, sweet lady; what imports this song ?
Oph. Say you ? nay, pray you, mark.
Oph. Larded all with sweet flowers:
King. How do ye, pretty lady?
Oph. Well, Gód yield 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, let us have no words of this, but when they ask you what it means, say you this : To-morrow is St. Valentine's day, all in the morn betinie, And I a maid at your window, to be your Valentine. . Then up he rose, and don'd his clothes, and do'pt the
chamber door ;
King. Pretty Ophelia !
By Gis, and by S. Charity,
Alack, and fie for shame!
By Cock, they are to blame.
You promis'd me to wed :
bed, King: How long has she been thus ? Oph. I hope, all will be well. We must be pa
tient; but I cannot chuse but weep, to think, they should lay him i' th' cold ground; my brother shall know of it, and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach; good-night, ladies; goodnight, sweet ladies; good-night, good-night. (Exit. King. Follow her close, give her good watch, I pray you;
(Exit Horatio. This is ihe poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father's death. O Gertrude, Gertrude ! When sorrows come, they come not fingle spies, 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 unwholesome in their thoughts and
whispers, For good Polonius' death ; (We've done but greenly, In private to inter him ;) poor Ophelia, Divided from herself, and her fair judgment; (Without the which we'er pictures, or mere beasts :) Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France : Feeds on this wonder, keeps himself in clouds, And wants not buzzers to infect his ear With pestilent speeches of his father's death ; Wherein necesity, of matter beggar'd, Will nothing stick our persons 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?
S CE NE VI.
Enter a Messengers King. WHERE avemy Switzers ? let them guard What is the matter ? Mej. Save yourself, my lord.
The ocean, over-peering of his lift,
Queen. How chearfully on the falfe trial they cry! Oh, this is counter, you false Danish dogs.
(Exeunt. Laer. I thank you, keep the door. O thou vile King, give me my father.
Queen. Calmly, good Laertes.
King. What is the cause, Laertes, That thy Rebellion looks fo giant-like? Let him go, Gertrude ; do not fear our person : There's such divinity doth hedge a King, That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of its will. Tell me, Laertes, Why are you thus incens'd ? Let him go, Gertrude. Speak, 'man. Laer. Where is my father ?