But foft, behold! Lo, where it comes again!
I'll cross it, though it blast me.
If thou haft any found, or use of Voice,
Speak to me. If there be any good thing to be done,
That may to thee do eafe, and grace to me; fpeak to me.
If thou art privy to thy Country's Fate,
Which happily foreknowing may avoid, Oh fpeak!-
Or, if thou haft uphoorded in thy Life
Extorted Treasure in the womb of Earth,
For which, they fay, you Spirits oft walk in Death,
Speak of it. Stay, and fpeak -Stop it, Marcellus
Mar. Shall I ftrike at it with my Partizan?
Hor. Do, if it will not ftand.
Ber. 'Tis here
Hor. 'Tis here
We do it wrong, being fo Majeftical,
To offer it the fhew of Violence;
For it is as the Air, invulnerable,
And our vain blows, malicious mockery.
Ber. It was about to speak, when the Cock crew.
Hor. And then it started like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful Summons. I have heard,
The Cock that is the Trumpet to the day,
Doth with his lofty and fhrill-founding throat
Awake the God of Day: and at his warning,
Whether in Sea, or Fire, in Earth, or Air,
Th' extravagant and erring Spirit hyes
To his Confine. And of the truth herein,
This prefent Object made probation.
Mar. It faded on the crowing of the Cock.
Some fay, that ever 'gainst that feafon comes
Wherein our Saviour's Birth is celebrated,
The Bird of Dawning fingeth all Night long:
And ther, they fay, no Spirit dares walk abroad,
The Nights are wholfome, then no Planets ftrike,
No Fairy takes, no Witch hath power to charm;
So hallow'd, and fo gracious is the time.
Hor. So have I heard, and do in part believe it.
But look, the Morn in Ruffet Mantle clad,
Walks o'er the Dew of yon high Eaftern Hill,
Break we our Watch up, and by my advice
Let us impart what we have seen to Night
Unto young Hamlet. For upon my life,
This Spirit, dumb to us, will fpeak to him:
Do you confent we do acquaint him with it,
As needful in our Loves, fitting our duty?
Mar. Let's do't, I pray, and I this Morning know
Where we shall find him most conveniently.
SCENE II. The Palace.
Enter the King, Queen, Ophelia, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, Voltimand, Cornelius, Lords and Attendants.
King. Though yet of Hamlet our dear Brother's Death,
The Memory be green; and that it us befitted
To bear our Hearts in grief, and our whole Kingdom
To be contracted in one brow of woe;
Yet fo far hath Difcretion fought with Nature,
That we with wifeft forrow think on him,
Together with remembrance of our felves.
Therefore our fometimes Sifter, now our Queen,
The Imperial Jointrefs of this warlike State,
Have we, as 'twere, with a defeated joy,
With one Aufpicious, and one dropping Eye,
With Mirth in Funeral, and with Dirge in Marriage,
In equal Scale weighing Delight and Dole,
Taken to Wife. Nor have we herein barr'd
Your better wifdoms, which have freely gone
With this Affair along, for all our thanks.
Now follows, that you know young Fortinbras,
Holding a weak fuppofal of our worth;
Or thinking by our late dear Brother's death,
Our State to be disjoint, and out of frame,
Colleagued with this Dream of his Advantage;
He hath not fail'd to pefter us with Meffage,
Importing the furrender of thofe Lands
Loft by his Father, with all Bonds of Law
To our most Valiant Brother. So much for him.
Now for our self, and for this time of meeting:
Thus much the Bufinefs is. We have here writ
To Norway, Uncle of young Fortinbras,
Who impotent and bed-rid, scarcely hears
Of this his Nephew's purpose, to fupprefs
His further Gate herein. In that the Levies,
The Lifts, and full Proportions are all made
Out of his Subjects; and we here dispatch
You, good Cornelius, and you Voltimand,
For bearing of this greeting to old Norway,
Giving to you no further perfonal Power
Of Treaty with the King, more than the scope 2
Of thefe dilated Articles allow.
Farewel, and let your hafte commend your Duty.
Vol In that, and all things, will we fhew our Duty.
King. We doubt in nothing, heartily Farewel.
[Exeunt Voltimand and Cornelius.
And now Laertes, what's the News with you?
You told us of fome Suit. What is't, Laertes?
You cannot speak of Reafon to the Dane,
And lofe your Voice. What would'ft thou beg, Laertes,
That shall not be my Offer, not thy Asking?
The Head is not more native to the Heart,
The Hand more Inftrumental to the Mouth,
Than is the Throne of Denmark to thy Father.
What wouldst thou have, Laertes?
Laer. Dread my Lord,
Your leave and favour to return to France,
From whence, though willingly I came to Denmark,
To fhew my Duty in your Coronation,
Yet now I must confefs, that Duty done,
My Thoughts and Wishes bend again towards France;
And bow them to your gracious Leave and Pardon.
King. Have you your Father's leave? what fays Polonius?
Pol. He hath, my Lord, by labourfome Petition,
Wrung from me my flow Leave; and at laft
Upon his Will I feal'd my hard Confent;
I do befeech you give him leave to go.
King. Take thy fair Hour, Laertes, time be thine,
And thy beft graces; fpend it at thy Will.
But now, my Coufin Hamlet, and my Son-
Ham. A little more than kin, and lefs than kind.
King. How is it that the Clouds ftill hang on you?
Ham. Not fo, my Lord, I am too much i' th' Sun.
Queen. Good Hamlet caft thy nightly colour off,
And let thine Eye look like a Friend on Denmark.
Do not, for ever, with thy veiled Lids,
Seek for thy noble Father in the duft;
Thou know'ft 'tis common, all that live muft die,
Paffing through Nature to Eternity.
Ham. Ay, Madam, it is common.
Why feems it fo particular with thee?
Ham. Seems, Madam? Nay, it is; I know not Seems s Tis not alone my Inky Cloak, good Mother,
Nor cuftomary Suits of folemn Black,
Nor windy Sufpiration of forc'd breath,
No, nor the fruitful River in the Eye,
Nor the dejected haviour of the Vifage,
Together with all Forms, Moods, fhews of Grief,
That can denote me truly. These indeed Seem,
For they are Actions that a Man might play;
But I have that within, which paffeth fhow:
These, but the Trappings, and the Suits of woe.
King. 'Tis fweet and commendable in your Nature, Hamlet,
To give these mourning Duties to your Father:
But you must know, your Father loft a Father,
That Father loft, loft his, and the Surviver bound
In filial Obligation, for fome term
To do obfequious Sorrow. But to perfevere
In obftinate Condolement, is a course
Of impious Stubbornefs. 'Tis unmanly Grief,
It fhews a Will moft incorrect to Heav'n,
A Heart unfortifi'd, a Mind impatient,
An Understanding simple, and unschool'd:
For what we know must be, and is as common,
As any the most vulgar thing to fenfe,
Why should we, in our peevish Oppofition,
Take it to Heart? Fie! 'Tis a fault to Heav'n,
A fault against the Dead, a fault to Nature,
To Reafon most abfurd, whose common Theam
Is death of Fathers, and who ftill hath cry'd,
From the first Coarfe, 'till he that died to Day,
This must be fo. We pray you throw to Earth
This unprevailing woe, and think of us,
As of a Father: For let the World take note,
You are the most immediate to our Throne,
And with no lefs Nobility of Love,
Than that which dearest Father bears his Son,
Do I impart towards you. For your intent
In going back to School to Wittenberg,
It is moft retrograde to our Defire:
And we beseech you, bend you to remain
Here in the cheer and comfort of our Eye,
Our chiefest Courtier, Coufin, and our Son.
Queen. Let not thy Mother lose her Prayers, Hamlet;
I prithee ftay with us, go not to Wittenberg.
Ham. I fall in all my best obey you, Madam.
King. Why 'tis a loving, and a fair Reply,
Be as our felf in Denmark Madam, come,
This gentle and unforc'd accord of Hamlet
Sits fmiling to my Heart, in grace whereof,
No jocund Health that Denmark drinks to Day,
But the great Cannon to the Clouds fhall tell,
And the Kings Rowfe, the Heav'n fhall bruit again,
Re-speaking earthly Thunder. Come away.
Ham. O that this too too folid Flesh would melt, Thaw, and refolve it felf into a Dew;
Or that the Everlafting had not fixt
His Cannon 'gainst felf flaughter. O God! O God!
How weary, ftale, flat, and unprofitable
Seems to me all the ufes of this World.
Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded Garden
That grows to Seed; things rank, and grofs in Nature
Poffefs it meerly. That it should come to this;
But two Months dead; nay, not fo much; not two,
So excellent a King, that was, to this,
Hyperion to a Satyr: So loving to my Mother,
That he permitted not the Winds of Heav'n
Vifit her Face too roughly. Heav'n and Earth!
Muft I remember?-why he would hang on him,
As if increase of Appetite had grown
By what it fed on; and yet within a Month ?.
Let me not think on't---Frailty, thy Name is Woman:
|