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Each Toy feems prologue to fome great Amifs;
So full of artlefs jealoufy is guilt,

It fpills it felf, in fearing to be fpilt.

Enter Ophelia, diftracted.

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 fandal fhoon.

[Singing. Queen. Alas, fweet lady; what imports this Song? Oph. Say you? nay, pray you, mark.

He's dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf, at his heels a ftone,
Enter King.

Queen. Nay, but Ophelia

Oph. Pray you, mark.

White his fbrowd as the mountain fnow.

Queen. Alas, look here, my lord.

Oph. Larded all with fweet flowers:

Which bewept to the Grave did go
With true love Showers.

King. How do ye, pretty lady?

Oph. Well, God yield you! They fay, 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, fay you this:

To morrow is St. Valentine's day, all in the morn betime, And I a maid at your window, to be your Valentine. Then up he rofe, and don'd his cloaths, and dupt the

chamber door;

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

King, Pretty Ophelia!

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

By Gis, and by S. Charity,

Alack, and fie for fhame!

Young men will do't, if they come to't,
By cock, they are to blame..
Quoth fhe, before you tumbled me,
You promis'd me to wed:

So would I ha' done, by yonder fun,
And thou badft not come to my bed.

King. How long has the been thus?

Oph. I hope, all will be well. We must be patient; but I cannot chufe but weep, to think, they fhould lay him i'th' cold ground; my brother shall know of it, and fo I thank you for your good counfel. Come, my coach good night, ladies; good night, fweet ladies; good night, good night. [Exit. King. Follow her clofe, give her good watch, I pray [Exit Horatio.

you;

This is the poifon of deep grief; it fprings
All from her father's death. O Gertrude, Gertrude!
When forrows come, they come not fingle fpies,
But in battalions. First, her father flain;
Next your Son gone, and he most violent author
Of his own juft Remove; the people muddied,
Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers,
For good Polonius' death; (We've done but greenly,
In private to interr him ;) poor Ophelia,
Divided from her felf, and her fair judgment;
(Without the which we're pictures, or mere beafts : }>
Laft, and as much containing as all these,

Her brother is in fecret come from France:
Feeds on this wonder, keeps himself in clouds,
And wants not buzzers to infect his ear
With peftilent speeches of his father's death;
Wherein neceffity, of matter beggar'd,
Will nothing stick our perfons to arraign
In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this,
Like to a murthering piece, in many places
VOL. VIII.

I

Gives

Gives me fuperfluous death!

Queen. Alack! what Noife is this ?

Enter a Meffenger.

[A noife within.

King. Where are my Switzers? let them guard the door.

What is the matter?

Mef. Save your felf, my lord.

The ocean, over-peering of his lift,

Eats not the flats with more impetuous hafte,
Than young Laertes, in a riotous head,

O'er-bears your officers; the rabble call him lord;
And as the world were now but to begin,
Antiquity forgot, cuftom not known,

The ratifiers and props of every Ward; (27)
They cry, "Chufe we Laertes for our King.”
Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the Clouds;
"Laertes fhall be King, Laertes King!

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Queen. How chearfully on the falfe trail they cry! Oh, this is counter, you false Danish dogs.

[Noife within.

Enter Laertes, with a Party at the Door.

King. The doors are broke.

Laer. Where is this King? Sirs! ftand you all with

out.

All. No, let's come in.

(27) The Ratifiers and Props of ev'ry Word;] The whole Tenour of the Context is fufficient to fhew, that this is a miftaken Reading. What can Antiquity and Custom, being the Props of Words, have to do with the Bufinefs in hand? Or what Idea is convey'd by it? Certainly, the Poet wrote;

The Ratifiers and Props of ev'ry Ward;

The Meffenger is complaining, that the riotous-Head - had over-borne the King's Officers, and then fubjoins, that Antiquity and Custom were forgot, which were the Ratifiers and Props of every Ward, i. e. of every one of those. Securities that Nature and Law place about the Perfon of a King. All this is rational and confequential. Mr. Warburton.

Laer.

Laer. I pray you, give me leave.
All. We will, we will.

Laer. I thank you; keep the door.
O thou vile King, give me my father.
Queen. Calmly, good Laertes.

[Exeunt.

Laer. That drop of blood that's calm, proclaims me! baftard;

Cries cuckold to my father; brands the harlot

Even here, between the chafte and unfmirch'd brow
Of my true mother.

King. What is the cause, Laertes,

That thy Rebellion looks fo giant-like?

Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our perfon:
There's fuch divinity doth hedge a King,

That treafon can but peep to what it would,
Acts little of its will. Tell me, Laertes,

Why are you thus incens'd? Let him go, Gertrudes
Speak, man.

Laer. Where is my father?

King. Dead.

Queen. 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! Confcience and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation; to this point I stand, That both the worlds I give to negligence, Let come, what comes; only I'll be reveng'd Moft throughly for my father.

King, Who fhall ftay you ??

Laer. My will, not all the world;

And for my means, I'll husband them so well,
They fhall go far with little:

If

Of

King Good Laertes,

you defire to know the certainty

your dear father, is't writ in your revenge, (That fweep ftake) you will draw both friend and foe, Winner and defer?

Laer. None but his enemies.

King. Will you know them then?

I 2

Laer.

Laer. To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my

arms,

And, like the kind life-rendring pelican,
Repast them with my blood.
King. Why, now you speak

Like a good child, and a true gentleman.
That I am guiltless of your father's death,
And am moft fenfible in grief for it,
It fhall as level to your judgment pierce,

As day does to your eye. [A noise within, “Let her come in.]

Laer. How now, what noise is that?

Enter Ophelia, fantastically dreft with fraws
and flowers.

O heat, dry up my brains! tears, feven times falt,
Burn out the fense and virtue of mine eye!

By heav'n, thy madness shall be paid with weight,
'Till our fcale turn the beam. O rofe of May!
Dear maid, kind fifter, fweet Ophelia !

O heav'ns, is't poffible a young maid's wits
Should be as mortal as an old man's life?
Nature is fine in love; and, where 'tis fine,
It fends fome precious inftance of it self
After the thing it loves.

Oph. They bore him bare-fac'd on the bier,
And on his Grave rains many a tear ;'

Fare you well, my dove!

Laer. Had'ft thou thy wits, and did'ft perfwade Revenge,

It could not move thus.

Oph. You must fing, down a-down, and you call him a-down-a. O how the wheel becomes it! it is the falfe fteward that stole his master's daughter.

Laer. This nothing's more than matter.

Oph. There's rofemary, that's for remembrance pray, love, remember; and there's pancies, that's for thoughts.

Latr.

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