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When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
Next, your son gone; and he most violent author
Enter a Gentleman.
King. Attend. Where are my Switzers!” Let them guard the door: What is the matter Gent. 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,
6 without judgment. 7 Privately. * Guards, 9 Bounds.
O'erbears your officers! The rabble call him, lord;
cry! o 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?—Sirs, stand you all without. Dan. No, let's come in. Laer. I pray you, give me leave. Dan. We will, we will. [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 bastard; Cries, cuckold, to my father; brands the harlot Even here, between the chaste unsmirched 3 brow Of my true mother. King. What is the cause, Laertes,
- * Scent. * Hounds run counter when they trace the scent backwards. 3 Clean, undefiled.
That thy rebellion looks so giant-like 2–
Speak, man. w
Laer. Where is my father
Queen. - - But not by him.
Ring. 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! 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 Most thoroughly for my father.
King. - Who shall stay you?
Laer. My will, not all the world's:
King. Good Laertes,
Laer. None but his enemies.
King. Will you know them then?
Laer. To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my
And, like the kind life-rend'ring pelican,
Ring. Why, now you speak
Danes. [Within.] Let her come in.
Laer. How now ! what noise is that?
Enter OPHELIA, fantastically dress'd with Straws and Flowers.
O heat, dry up my brains ! tears seven times salt,
4 Appear. 5 Artful,
a-down-a. O, how the wheel" becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter. Laer. This nothing's more than matter. Oph. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. Laer. A document in madness; thoughts and remembrance fitted. Oph. There's fennel for you, and columbines:— there's rue for you; and here's some for me:—we may call it, herb of grace o'Sundays:—you may wear your rue with a difference."—There's a daisy —I would give you some violets; but they withered all, when my father died :—They say, he made a good end,
For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy, [Sings. Laer. Thought” and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favour, and to prettiness. Oph. And will he not come again 2 [Sings. And will he not come again 3 No, no, he is dead, Go to thy death-bed, He never will come again.
His beard was as white as snow,
6 The burthen. z 7 i. e. By its Sunday name “herb of grace” mine is merely rue, i. e. Sorrow. * Melancholy.