Bestial oblivion, or fome craven fcruple (A thought, which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom, And ever three parts coward:) I do not know Sith, I have caufe, and will, and ftrength, and means Led by a delicate and tender Prince, To all that fortune, death, and danger dare, When Honour's at the flake. How ftand I then, Go to their Graves like beds; fight for a Plot, Queen. I Enter Queen, Horatio, and a Gentleman. Will not speak with her. Gent. She is importunate, [Exit. Indeed, diftra&t; her mood will needs be pitied. Queen. Queen. What would fhe have? Gent. She fpeaks much of her father; fays, she hears, There's tricks i' th' world; and hems and beats her heart; Spurns enviously at ftraws; speaks things in doubt, That carry but half fenfe: her speech is nothing, Yet the unfhaped ufe of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts; Which as her winks, and nods, and geftures yield them, Indeed would make one think, there might be thought; Tho' nothing fure, yet much unhappily. Hor. 'Twere good fhe were spoken with, for fhe may ftrow Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds. Queen. To my fick foul, as fin's true nature is, It fpills itfelf, in fearing to be spilt. Enter Ophelia, diftracted. Oph. Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark? Queen. How now, Ophelia? Oph. How fhall I your true Love know from another one? By his cockle hat and staff, and his fandal fhoon's [Singing. Queen. Alas, fweet lady; what imports this fong? He's dead and gone, lady, he's dead and gone; 5 Enter White his fhroud as the mountain fnow. Oph. Larded all with fweet flowers: King. How do ye, pretty lady? Oph. Well, God yield you! they say 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, 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, 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 had not come to my bed. King. How long has he been thus? Oph. I hope, all will be well. We must be pa tient; tient; 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; goodnight, fweet ladies; good-night, good-night. [Exit. King. Follow her clofe, give her good watch, I [Exit Horatio. 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 spies, But in Battalions. Firft, her father flain; pray you; Next your Son gone, and he moft violent author For good Polonius' death; (We've done but greenly, Queen. Alack! what Noife is this? SCENE Enter a Meffenger. King WH VI. [A noife within. HERE are my Switzers? let them guard the door. What is the matter? Mef. Save yourself, my lord. O 6 The The ocean, over-peering of his lift, Eats not the flats with more impetuous hafte, They cry, "Chufe we Laertes for our King!" Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the Clouds; "Laertes fhall be King, Laertes King!" Queen. How chearfully on the falfe trial they cry! Oh, this is counter, you falfe Danish dogs. [Noife within. Enter Laertes, with a Party at the Door. King. The doors are broke. Laer. Where is this King? Sirs! stand you without. All. No, let's come in. 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. all [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 caufe, Laertes, That thy Rebellion looks fo giant-like? Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our perfon : That treafon can but peep to what it would, Why are you thus incens'd? Let him go, Gertrude. Laer. Where is my father? |