OPHELIA sings.

Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Larded all with sweet flowers;

Of his own just remove: the people muddied, Which bewept to the grave did go,

Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and With true-love showers.

whispers, King. How do you do, pretty lady ?

For good. Polonius' death; and we have done but Oph. Well, God 'ield you! They say the owl greenly, was a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we In hugger-mugger to inter him: poor Ophelia are, but know not what we may be. God be at | Divided from herself and her fair judgment; jour table !

Without the which we are pictures, or mere beasts : King. Conceit upon her father.

Last, and as much containing as all these, Oph. Pray let us have no words of this; but Her brother is in secret come from France; when they ask you what it means, say you this : Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds,

And wants not buzzers to infect his ear

With pestilent speeches of his father's death ;
Good morrow, 't is St. Valentine's day.

Wherein necessity, of matter beggared,
All in the morning betime,

Will nothing stick our person to arraign
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine;

In ear and ear. O, my dear Gertrude, this,
Then up he rose, and donned his clothes, Like to a murdering-piece, in many places
And dupped the chamber door;

Gives me superfluous death. [A noise within.
Let in the maid, that out a maid

Queen. Alack, what noise is this?
Never departed more.

Enter a Gentleman.
King. Pretty Ophelia.
Oph. Indeed, without an oath, I'll make an King. Attend :
end on't.

Where are my Switzers ? Let them guard the


What is the matter?
By Gis and by Saint Charity,

Gent. Save yourself, my lord;
Alack and fie for shame!

The ocean, overpeering of his list,
Young men will do 't if they come to 't;
By cock they are to blame.

Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste,
Quoth she, before you tumbled me,

Than young Laertes, in a riotous head,
You promised me to wed:

O'erbears your officers! The rabble call him,
So would I ha' done, by yonder sun,

lord; An thou hadst not come to my bed.

And, as the world were now but to begin, King. How long hath she been thus?

Antiquity forgot, custom not known, Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be The ratifiers and props of every word, patient: but I cannot choose but weep, to think They cry, “Choose we; Laertes shall be king !”. they shall lay him i' the cold ground. My bro- Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the ther shall know of it, and so I thank you for your clouds, good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, “ Laertes shall be king; Laertes king!” ladies; good night, sweet ladies ; good night, good | Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they night.

[Exit. cry; King. Follow her close; give her good watch, O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs. I pray you,

[Exit HORATIO. King. The doors are broke. [Noise within. O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father's death. — 0, Gertrude, Ger

Enter LAERTES, armed ; Danes following. trude,

Laer. Where is this king? — Sirs, stand you When sorrows come, they come not single spies,

all without. But in battalions! First, her father slain ; Danes. No, let's come in.


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Laer. I pray you, give me leave. And, like the life-rendering pelican,
Danes. We will, we will.

Repast them with my blood.
[They retire without the door. King. Why, now you speak
Laer. I thank you : keep the door. — 0, thou Like a good child and a true gentleman.
vile king,

That I am guiltless of your father's death, Give me my father.

And am most sensibly in grief for it, Queen. Calmly, good Laertes.

It shall as level to your judgment 'pear, Lacr. That drop of blood that's calm, proclaims | As day does to your eye. me bastard ;

Danes (within]. Let her come in. Cries "cuckold” to my father; brands the harlot Laer. How now! what noise is that? Even here, between the chaste unsmirchéd brow

Enter OPHELIA, funtastically dressed with straws Of my true mother. King. What is the cause, Laertes,

and flowers. That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?

O heat, dry up my brains ! tears, seven times salt, Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person : Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye! — There 's such divinity doth hedge a king, By heaven, thy madness shall be paid with weight, That treason can but peep to what it would, Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May ! Acts little of his will. — Tell me, Laertes, Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia ! Why thou art thus incensed ? — Let him go, Ger- O heaven! is 't possible a young maid's wits • trude; —

Should be as mortal as an old man's life? Speak, man.

Nature is fine in love: and where 't is fine, Laer. Where is my father?

I sends some precious instance of itself
King. Dead.

After the thing it loves.
Queen. But not by him.
King. Let him demand his fill.

OPHELIA sings.
Laer. How came he dead? —I'll not be juggled

They bore him barefaced on the bier ;
with :

Hey no nonny, nonny hey nonny :
To hell, allegiance ! vows, to the blackest devil! And in his grave rained many a tear; -
Conscience and grace to the profoundest pit !
I dare damnation : to this point I stand, - Fare you well, my dore !
That both the worlds I give to negligence,

Laer. Hadst thou thy wits, and did persuade Let come what comes; only I'll be revenged

revenge, Most throughly for my father.

It could not move thus. King. Who shall stay you ?

Oph. You must sing, “Down a-down, an you Laer. My will; not all the world : call him a-down-a.” O, how the wheel becomes And, for my means, I'll husband them so well, it! It is the false steward, that stole his master's They shall go far with little.

daughter. King. Good Laertes,

Laer. This nothing's more than matter. If you desire to know the certainty

Oph. There's rosemary, that's for rememOf your dear father's death, is 't writ in your re- brance; pray you, love, remember: and there is venge

pansies, that's for thoughts. That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and Laer. A document in madness: thoughts and

remembrance fitted ! Winner and loser ?

Oph. There's fennel for you, and columbines : Laer. None but his enemies.

- there's rue for you; and here's some for me; King. Will you know them, then ?

we may call it herb of grace o' Sundays: you may Laer. To his good friends thus wide I'll ope wear your rue with a difference. — There's a my arms;

daisy : I would give you some violets; but they


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