Hor. Oh my dear lord,

Ham. Nay, do not think, I flatter:

For what advancement may I hope from thee,
That no revenue haft, but thy good fpirits,

To feed and cloath thee? Should the poor be flatter'd ?
No, let the candied tongue lick abfurd Pomp,
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,
Where thrift may follow fawning. Doft thou hear?
Since my dear foul was miftrefs of her choice,
And could of men diftinguish, her election
Hath feal'd thee for her felf. For thou hast been
As one, in fuffering all, that fuffers nothing:
A man, that fortune's buffets and rewards
Haft ta'en with equal thanks. And bleft are thofe,
Whole blood and judgment are fo well comingled,
That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger,
To found what ftop fhe pleafe. Give me that man,
That is not paffion's flave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core: ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.

Something too much of this.
There is a Play to night before the King,
One Scene of it comes near the circumftance,
Which I have told thee, of my father's death.
I pr'ythee, when thou seest that A&t a-foot,
Ev'n with the very comment of thy foul
Obferve mine uncle: if his occult guilt.
Do not it felf unkennel in one speech,
It is a damned Ghoft that we have feen:
And my imaginations are as foul (17)
As Vulcan's Smithy. Give him heedful note;
For I mine eyes will rivet to his face ;
And, after, we will both our judgments join,
In cenfure of his Seeming.

Hor. Well, my lord.

(17) And my Imaginations are as foul,

As Vulcan's Stithy.] I have ventur'd, against the Anthority of all the Copies, to fubftitute Smithy here. I have given my Reasons already in a Note on Troilus, to which, for Brevity's fake, I beg Leave to refer the Readers,

If he fteal aught, the whilft this Play is playing,
And 'scape detecting, I will pay the theft.

Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rofincrantz, Guildenstern, and other lords attendant, with a guard carrying torches. Danish March. Sound a flourish.

Ham. They're coming to the Play; I must be idle Get you a place.

King. How fares our cousin Hamlet?

Ham. Excellent, i'faith, of the camelion's difh: I eat the air, promife cramm'd: you cannot feed capons fo. King. I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these

words are not mine.

Ham. No, nor mine. Now, my lord; you plaid once i'th' univerfity, you fay ? [To Polonius, Pol. That I did, my lord, and was accounted a good actor.

Ham. And what did you enact?

Pol. I did enact Julius Cæfar, I was kill'd i'th' Cam pitol: Brutus kill'd me.

Ham. It was a brute part of him, to kill so capital a calf there. Be the players ready?

Rof. Ay, my lord, they stay upon your patience. Queen. Come hither, my dear Hamlet, fit by me. Ham. No, good mother, here's mettle more attractive. Pol. Oh ho, do you mark that?

Ham. Lady, fhall I lye in your lap?

Oph. No, my lord.

[Lying down at Ophelia's feet.

Ham. I mean, my Head upon your Lap?

Oph. Ay, my Lord.

Ham. Do you think, I meant country matters?

Oph. I think nothing, my lord.

Ham. That's a fair thought, to lie between a maid's legs.

Oph. What is, my lord?

Ham. Nothing.

Oph. You are merry, my lord.

Ham. Who, I?

Oph

Ham. Oh God! your only jig-maker; what should a man do, but be merry? For, look you, how chearfuly my mother looks, and my father dy'd within these two hours.

Oph. Nay, 'tis twice two months, my lord.

Ham. So long? nay, then let the Devil wear black, for I'll have a fuit of fables. Oh heav'ns! dye two months ago, and not forgotten yet! then there's hope, a Great man's memory may out-live his life half a year: but, by'r-lady, he must build churches then; or elfe fhall he fuffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse; whose epitaph is, For ob, for ob, the hobby-horfe is forgot.

Hautboys play. The dumb fhew enters.

The

(18) Enter a Duke and Dutchefs, with regal Coronets, very lovingly; the Dutchess embracing him, and he her. She kneels; he takes her up, and declines his head upon her neck; he lays him down upon a bank of flowers; the feeing him afleep, leaves him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes off his Crown, kiffes it, and pours poifon in the Duke's ears, and Exit. Dutchess returns, finds the Duke dead, and makes pafionate action. The poifoner, with fome two or three mutes, comes in again, feeming to lament with her. The dead body is carried away. The poisoner wooes the Dutchess with gifts ;. She feems loth and unwilling a while, but in the end accepts his love.

[Exeunt.

(18) Enter a King and Queen very lovingly:] Thus have the blundering and inadvertent Editors all along given us this Stage-Direction, tho' we are exprefsly told by Hamlet anor, that the Story of this introduced Interlude is the Murther of Gonzago Duke of Vienna. The Source of this Miftake is eafily to be accounted for, from the Stage's dressing the Characters. Regal Coronets being at firft order'd by the Poet for the Duke and Dutchess, the fucceeding Players, who did not ftrictly obferve the Quality of the Persons or Circumstances of the Story, miftook 'em for a King and Queen; and fo the Error was deduced down from thence to the present Times.

Oph.

Oph. What means this, my lord?

Ham. Marry, this is miching Malicho; it means mischief.

Opb. Belike, this fhow imports the Argument of the Play?

Enter Prologue.

Ham. We fhall know by this fellow the Players cannot keep counfel; they'll tell all.

Opb. Will he tell us, what this fhow meant?

Ham. Ay, or any show that you'll fhew him. Be not you ashamed to fnew, he'll not fhame to tell you what

it means.

Oph. You are naught, you are naught, I'll mark the Play.

Prol. For us, and for our tragedy,

Here flooping to your clemency,

We beg your hearing patiently.

Ham. Is this a prologue, or the pofie of a ring?
Oph. 'Tis brief, my lord.

Ham. As woman's love.

Enter Duke, and Dutchess, Players:

Duke. Full thirty times hath Phoebus' Carr gone round
Neptune's falt wash, and Tellus' orbed ground;
And thirty dozen moons with borrowed fheen
About the world have time twelve thirties been,
Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands,
Unite commutual, in moft facred bands.

Dutch. So many journeys may the Sun and Moon
Make us again count o'er, ere love be done.
But woe is me, you are fo fick of late,

So far from cheer and from your former ftate,
That I distrust you; yet though I distrust,
Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing muft:
For women fear too much, ev'n as they love.
And womens' fear and love hold quantity;
'Tis either none, or in extremity.

Now,

you

know

Now, what my love is, proof hath made
And as my love is fiz'd, my fear is fo. (19)
Where love is great, the smallest doubts are fear;
Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.
Duke. Faith, I must leave thee, Love, and fhortly too:
My operant powers their functions leave to do,
And thou fhalt live in this fair world behind,
Honour'd, belov'd; and, haply, one as kind
For husband fhalt thou

Dutch. Oh, confound the reft!

Such love must needs be treafon in my breast:
In fecond husband let me be accurft!

None wed the fecond, but who kill the firft.
Ham. Wormwood, wormwood!

Dutch. The inftances, that fecond marriage move,
Are base refpects of thrift, but none of love.
A fecond time I kill my husband dead,

When fecond husband kiffes me in bed.

Duke. I do believe, you think what now you speak; But what we do determine, oft we break ;

Purpofe is but the flave to memory,

Of violent birth, but poor validity:

Which now, like fruits unripe, fticks on the tree,
But fall unfhaken, when they mellow be.

Moft neceffary 'tis, that we forget

To pay our felves what to our felves is debt:
What to our felves in paffion we propose,

(19) And as my Love is fix'd, my Fear is fo.] Mr. Pape fays, I read fiz'd; and, indeed, I do fo: because, observe, the Quarto of 1605 reads, ciz'd; that of 1611 cizft; the Folio in 1632, fiz; and that in 1623, fiz'd: and because, befides, the whole Tenour of the Context demands this Reading: For the Lady evidently is talking here of the Quantity and Proportion of her Love and Fear; not of their Continuance, Duration, or Stability. Cleopatra expreffes herself much in the fame manner, with regard to her Grief for the Lofs of Antony.

our Size of Sorrow,

Proportion'd to our Cause, must be as great
As that which makes it.

The