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Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted 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 live, must
Ham. Ay, madam, it is common.
If it be,
seems. 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the
eye, Nor the dejected haviour of the visage, Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief, That can denote me truly: These, indeed, seem, For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that within, which passeth show; These, but the trappings and the suits of woe. King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your na
ture, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father: But, you must know, your father lost a father; That father lost, lost his; and the survivor 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;
pray you, throw to earth
Hamlet; I pray thee, stay with us, go not to Wittenberg.
Ham. I shall in all my best obey you, madam,
King. Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply; Be as ourself in Denmark.—Madam, come; This gentle and unforc'd 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 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 Seem 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
ture, Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead!—nay, not so much, not
two: 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 Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I remember? why, she would hang on him, As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on: And yet, within a month,— Let me not think on't;— Frailty, thy name is wo
man ! A little month; or ere those shoes were old, With which she follow'd my poor father's body, Like Niobe, all tears ;-why she, even she, — O heaven! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn'd longer,-marry'd with my
My father's brother; but no more like my father,
Enter Horatio, Bernardo, and Marcellus.
I am glad to see you well : Horatio,-or I do forget myself.
Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant
Ham. Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name
And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?
Mar. My good lord,
Ham. I am very glad to see you; good even, sir. But what, in faith, make you
from Wittenberg? Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord.
Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so;
Hor. My lord, I came to see your fathers funeral.
I think, it was to see my mother's wedding.
Hor. Indeed, my lord, it follow'd hard upon. Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral bak'd
mind's Hor. I saw him once, he was a goodly king.
Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all,
Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.
The king my father!
For God's love, let me hear.
A figure like your father, Armed at point, exactly, cap-à-pé, Appears before them, and, with solemn march, Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk’d, By their oppress’d and fear-surprized eyes, Within his truncheon's length; whilst they, distillid