That have a father killed, a mother stained,
Excitements of my reason and my blood,
And let all sleep, while to my shame I see
The imminent death of twenty thousand men,
That for a fantasy and trick of fame
Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,
Which is not tomb enough and continent
To hide the slain? O, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!



Elsinore. A room in the castle.

Enter Queen, Horatio, and a Gentleman.
Queen. I will not speak with her.
Gent. She is importunate, indeed distract.

Her mood will needs be pitied.

What would she have? Gent. She speaks much of her father; says she

hears There's tricks i’ the world, and hems, and

beats her heart, Spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in

doubt That carry but half sense. Her speech is


Yet the unshaped use of it doth move
The hearers to collection. They aim at it
And botch the words up fit to their own 10

Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures

yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be

thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. Hor. 'Twere good she were spoken with, for she

may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds. 15 Let her come in.

[Exit Gentleman. Queen. [Aside.] To my sick soul, as sin's true

nature is,
Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss :
So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. 20

Re-enter Gentleman with Ophelia.
Oph. Where is the beauteous majesty of Den-

Queen. How now, Ophelia !
Oph. [Sings.] How should I your true love know

From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,

And his sandal shoon.
Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this

song? Oph. Say you? Nay, pray you, mark.


· [Sings.] He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-groen turf

At his heels a stone. Oh, oh! Queen. Nay, but, Ophelia, – 35 Oph. Pray you, mark. [Sings.] White his shroud as the mountain snow,

Enter King.
Queen. Alas, look here, my lord.
Oph. [Sings.] Larded with sweet flowers;

Which bewept to the grave did go

. With true-love showers. King. How do you, pretty lady? Oph. Well, God 'ild 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 45 at your table!

King. Conceit upon her father.
Oph. Pray you, let's have no words of this, but

when they ask you what it means, say you

. this:
50 [Sings.] To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,

All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,

To be your Valentine.

55 King. How long hath she been thus?

Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be patient;

but I can not choose but weep, to think they should lay him i’ the cold ground. My brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, 60 ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night.

[Exit. King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.

[Exit Horatio.
0, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs 65
All from her father's death. O Gertrude,

When sorrows come, they come not single

But in battalions. First, her father slain;
Next, your son gone; and he most violent

author Of his own just remove; the people muddied, 70 Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts

and whispers,
For good Polonius' death; and we have done

but greenly
In hugger-mugger to inter him; poor Ophelia
Divided from herself and her fair judgement,
Without the which we are pictures, or mere 76

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, 80

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Wherein necessity, of matter beggared,
Will nothing stick our person to arraign
In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this,

Like to a murdering-piece, in many places 86 Gives me superfluous death. [A noise within. [Queen.

Alack, what noise is this?] King. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard

the door.

Enter a Gentleman.
What is the matter?

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,
O’erbears your officers. The rabble call him

And, as the world were now but to begin,
Antiquity forgot, custom not known,
(The ratifiers and props of every word,) i
They cry “Choose we! Laertes shall be

king!” 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, this is counter, you false Danish dogs! 100 King. The doors are broke [Noise within.

Enter Laertes, armed; Danes following. Laer. Where is this king? Sirs, stand you all


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