40 Vol. S

: In that and all things will we show our duty. King. We doubt it nothing; heartily farewell.

[Exeunt Voltimand and Cornelius. And now, Laertes, what's the news with you? You told us of some suit; what is’t, Laertes?

You cannot speak of reason to the Dane, 45 And lose your voice. What wouldst thou

beg, Laertes,
That shall not be my offer, not thy asking?
The head is not more native to the heart,
The hand more instrumental to the mouth,

Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father. 50 What wouldst thou have, Laertes? Laer.

My dread lord,
Your leave and favour to return to France;
From whence though willingly I came to

To show my duty in your coronation,
Yet now, I must confess, that duty done,
My thoughts and wishes bend again toward

And bow them to your gracious leave and

pardon. King. Have you your father's leave? What

says Polonius? Pol. He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow

By laboursome petition, and at last
Upon his will I sealed my hard consent.


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I do beseech you, give him leave to go.
King. Take thy fair hour, Laertes. Time be

And thy best graces spend it at thy will!

But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son,Ham. [Aside.] A little more than kin, and less 65

than kind. King. How is it that the clouds still hang on you? Ham. Not so, my lord; I am too much i’ the

sun. Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, And let thine eye look like a friend on

Do not for ever with thy vailed lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust.
Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives

must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.
Ham. Ay, madam, it is common.

If it be,
Why seems it so particular with thee? 75
Ham. Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not

“seems.” 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, . 80 Nor the dejected haviour of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes of

That can denote me truly. These indeed


For they are actions that a man might play; 85 But I have that within which passeth show;

These but the trappings and the suits of woe. King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature,

To give these mourning duties to your father.

But, you must know, your father lost a father; 90 That father lost, lost his, and the survivor

In filial obligation for some term
To do obsequious sorrow; but to persever
In obstinate condolement is a course
Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief;
It shows a will most incorrect to heaven,
A heart unfortified, a mind impatient,
An understanding simple and unschooled;
For what we know must be and is as common

As any the most vulgar thing to sense, 100 Why should we in our peevish opposition

Take it to heart? Fie! ’tis a fault to heaven,
A fault against the dead, a fault to nature,
To reason most absurd, whose common theme
Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried,
From the first corse till he that died to-day,
“This must be so.” We pray you, throw to

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 less nobility of love
Than that which dearest father bears his son,
Do I impart toward you. For your intent
In going back to school in Wittenberg,
It is most retrograde to our desire;
And we beseech you, bend you to remain 115
Here in the cheer and comfort of our eye,

Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son. Queen. Let not thy mother lose her prayers,

Hamlet. · I pray thee, stay with us; go not to Witten

berg. Ham. I shall in all my best obey you, madam. 120 King. Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply.

Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come;
This gentle and unforced accord of Hamlet
Sits smiling to my heart; in grace whereof,
No jocund health that Denmark drinks 125

to-day, .
But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell,
And the King's rouse the heaven shall bruit

again, Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away.

[Flourish. Exeunt all but Hamlet. Ham. O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,

Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! 130
Or that the Everlasting had not fixed
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God!




How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on’t! ah fie! 'Tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross

in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to

But two months dead! Nay, not so much,

not two.
So excellent a king; that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother
That he might not beteem the winds of

Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and

earth! Must I remember? Why, she 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! A little month, or e'er those shoes were old With which she followed my poor father's

body, Like Niobe, all tears, -why she, even she0 God! a beast, that wants discourse of

reason, Would have mourned longer-married with

my uncle,



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