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When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions ! First, her father slain;

Next, your son gone; and he most violent author
Of his own just remove: The people muddied,
Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whis-
pers,
For good Polonius' death; and we have done but
greenly,"
In hugger-mugger" to inter him: Poor Ophelia
Divided from herself, and her fair judgment;
Without the which we are pictures, or mere beasts.
Last, and as much containing as all these,
Her brother is in secret come from France:
Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds,
And wants not buzzers to infect his ear
With pestilent speeches of his father's death;
Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd,
Will nothing stick our person 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?

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;
And, as the world were now but to begin,
Antiquity forgot, custom not known,
The ratifiers and props of every word,
They cry, Choose we; Laertes shall be king 1
Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds,
Laertes shall be king, Laertes king !
Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they

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.

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That thy rebellion looks so giant-like 3–
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 his will.—Tell me, Laertes,
Why thou art thus incens'd 5–Let him go, Ger.

trude;— Speak, man. w 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 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?

Lacr. My will, not all the world's :
And, for my means, I'll husband them so well,
They shall go far with little.

King. Good Laertes,
If you desire to know the certainty
Of your dear father's death, is't writ in your revenge,
That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and foe,
Winner and loser 2

Laer. None but his enemies.

Ring. Will you know them then?

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

arms ;

And, like the kind life-rend'ring pelican,
Repast them with my blood.

Ring. Why, now you speak
Like a good child, and a true gentleman.
That I am guiltless of your father's death,
And am most sensibly in grief for it,
It shall as level to your judgment 'pear,4
As day does to your eye.

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,
Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye l—
By heaven, thy madness shall be paid with weight,
Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May !
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelial
O heavens ! is't possible, a young maid's wits
Should be as mortal as an old man’s life 2
Nature is fine 5 in love : and, where 'tis fine,
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves.
Oph. They bore him barefac'd on the bier;
Hey no nonny, nonny hey nonny :
And in his grave rain'd many a tear;--
Fare you well, my dove!
Laer. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade re-
venge,
It could not move thus. w
Oph. You must sing, Down-a-down, an you call him

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,
All flaren was his poll:
He is gone, he is gone,
And we cast away moan ;
God 'a mercy on his soul /

6 The burthen. z 7 i. e. By its Sunday name “herb of grace” mine is merely rue, i. e. Sorrow. * Melancholy.

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