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HAM. Alas, poor Ghoft!

GHOST. Pity me not, but lend thy ferious hearing

To what I fhall unfold.

HAM. Speak, I am bound to hear.

GHOST. So art thou to revenge when thou shalt hear.

HAM. What?

GHOST. I am thy father's fpirit,

Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,

And for the day, confin'd to fast in fire,
Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature
Are burnt and purg'd away. But that I am forbid
To tell the fecrets of my prifon house,

I could a tale unfold, whofe lighteft word

Would harrow up thy foul, freeze thy young blood,"
Make thy two eyes, like ftars, ftart from their fpheres,
Thy knotty and combined locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand on end
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine:
But this eternal blazon muft not be

To ears of flesh and blood; lift, lift, oh lift!
If thou didst ever thy dear father love

HAM. O heav'n!

GHOST. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.
HAM. Murder!

GHOST. Murder moft foul, as in the best it is;

But this moft foul, ftrange, and unnatural.

HAM. Hafte me to know it, that I, with wings as swift As meditation, or the thoughts of love,

May fly to my revenge.

GHOST. I find thee apt ;

And duller should'st thou be, than the fat weed

That roots itself in ease on Lethe's wharf,

Would't thou not ftir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear;

'Tis given out, that, fleeping in my orchard,

K k

A ferpent ftung me. So the whole ear of Denmark

Is by a forged procefs of my death

Rankly abused: but know, thou noble youth,
The ferpent that did fting thy father's life
Now wears his crown.

HAм. Oh, my prophetic foul! my uncle

GHOST. Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,
With witchcraft of his wit, with trait'rous gifts,
(O wicked wit, and gifts, that have the power
So to feduce!) won to his fhameful lust
The will of my most seeming virtuous queen.
Oh Hamlet, what a falling off was there!
But foft! methinks I fcent the morning air-
Brief let me be: fleeping within mine orchard,
My cuftom always in the afternoon,

Upon my fecure hour thy uncle stole
With juice of curfed ebony in a phial,'
And in the porches of mine ear did pour
The leperous diftilment.-

Thus was I, fleeping, by a brother's hand,
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once berest ;
Cut off even in the bloffoms of my fin;
No reck'ning inade! but fent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head!

HAM. Oh horrible! oh horrible! moft horrible!
GHOST. If thou haft nature in thee, bear it not;
But howfoever thou purfu'st this act,
Taint not thy mind, nor let thy foul contrive
Against thy mother aught; leave her to heav'n,
And to thofe thorns that in her bofom lodge,
To prick and fting her. Fare the well at once!
The glow-worm thows the matin to be near,

And gins to pale his ineffectual fire.

Adieu, adieu, adieu; remember me.

HAM. Oh, all you hoft of heav'n! oh earth! what else?

And fhall I couple hell? oh fie! hold my heart!
And you, my finews, grow not inftant old;
But bear me ftiffly up. Remember thee!

Ay, thou poor ghoft, while memory holds a feat
In this distracted globe; remember thee!
Yea, from the tablet of my memory

I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All faws of books, all forms, all preffures paft,
That youth and obfervation copied there;
And thy commandment all alone fhall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmix'd with bafer matter.

CHAPTER XXX.

SHAKSPEARE.

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.
To be, or not to be?-that is the question.-
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The ftings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by oppofing end them?-To die, to fleep-
No more and by a fleep, to say, we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to;-'Tis a confummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die-to sleep-

To fleep! perchance to dream!-ay, there's the rub;
For in that fleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have fhuffled off this mortal coil,

Muft give us paufe. There's the refpect
That makes calamity of fo long life:

For who would bear the whips and fcorns o' th' time,
Th' oppreffor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the laws delay,

The infolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life e;

But that the dread of fomething after death
(That undiscover'd country, from whofe bourne
No traveller returns) puzzles the will;

And makes us rather bear thofe ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus confcience does make cowards of us all:
And thus the native hue of refolution
Is ficklied o'er with the pale caft of thought;
And enterprifes of great pith and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lofe the name of action.

CHAPTER XXXI.

SHAKSPEARE.

SOLILOQUY OF THE KING IN HAMLET.

OH! my offence is rank, it fmells to heav'n,
It hath the primal, eldest curfe upon't;
A brother's murder-Pray I cannot :
Though inclination be as sharp as 'twill,
My ftronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And like a man to double business bound, .
I ftand in paufe where I fhall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this curfed hand.
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood?
Is there not rain enough in the fweet heav'ns.
To wash it white as fnow? Whereto ferves mercy,
But to confront the viffage of offence?
And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force,
To be foreftalled ere we come to fall,

Or pardon'd being down ?- Then I'll look up;
My fault is paft. But oh, what form of prayer

Can ferve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder !-
That cannot be, fince I am ftill poffefs'd

But 'tis not fo above.

Of thofe effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardon'd, and retain th' offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice;
And oft 'tis feen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the laws.
There is no shuffling; there the action lies
In its true nature, and we ourselves compell'd,
Ev'n to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? What rests?
Try what repentance can: what can it not?
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?
Oh wretched ftate! oh bofom black as death!
Oh limed foul, that ftruggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels! make affay!
Bow, ftubborn knees; and, heart, with ftrings of steel,
Be foft as finews of the new-born babe!

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ODE ON SAINT CECILIA's DAY.

DESCEND, ye nine! defcend and fing;
The breathing inftruments inspire,

Wake into voice each filent ftring,
And fweep the founding lyre!
In a fadly-pleafing strain

Let the warbling lute complain:
Let the loud trumpet found,
Till the roofs all around:
The fhrill echoes rebound:

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