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When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
pers, For good Polonius' death; and we have done but
greenly, In hugger-mugger? to inter him: Poor Ophelia Divided from herself, and her fair judgment; Without the which we are pictures, or mere beasts. 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 ; Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd, Will nothing stick our person to arraign In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like to a murdering piece, in many places Gives me superfluous death!
[A noise within. Queen.
Alack! what noise is this?
Enter a Gentleman.
Save yourself, my lord;
6 Without judgment.
officers! The rabble call him, lord; And, as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, custom not known, The ratifiers and props of every word, 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.
King. The doors are broke. [Noise within.
Enter LAERTES, armed; Danes following: Laer. Where is this king ?-Sirs, stand you all
without. Dan. No, let's come in. Luer.
I pray you, give me leave. Dan. We will, we will.
[They retire without the door. Laer. I thank you :-keep the door.-O thou vile
Calmly, good Laertes. Laer. That drop of blood, that's calm, proclaims
me bastard ; Cries, cuckold, to my father ; brands the harlot Even here, between the chaste unsmirched 3 brow Of my true mother.
What is the cause, Laertes,
Give me my
I Scent. 2 Hounds run counter when they trace the scent backwards.
3 Clean, undefiled.
That thy rebellion looks so giant-like ?--
trude; Speak, man.
Laer. Where is my father ?
But not by him. King. Let him demand his fill.
Laer. How came he dead? I'll not be juggled with: To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil ! Conscience, and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation : To this point I stand, That both the worlds I give to negligence, Let come what comes; only I'll be reveng'd Most thoroughly for my father. King.
Who shall stay you? Laer. My will, not all the world's : And, for my means, I'll husband them so well, They shall go far with little. King.
Laer. None but his enemies.
Will you know them then? Laer. To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my
And, like the kind life-rend'ring pelican,
Why, now you speak
Danes. [Within.] Let her come in.
Enter OPHELIA, fantastically dress’d with Straws and
Flowers. O heat, dry up my brains ! tears seven times salt, Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye! By heaven, thy madness shall be paid with weight, Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May ! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia ! O heavens ! is’t possible, a young maid’s wits Should be as mortal as an old man's life? Nature is fines in love: and, where 'tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself After the thing it loves. Oph. They bore him barefac'd on the bier;
Hey no nonny, nonny hey nonny:
And in his grave rain'd many a tear ;Fare you well, my dove! Laer. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade re
venge, It could not move thus.
Oph. You must sing, Down-a-down, an you call him
a-down-a. O, how the wheel 6 becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter.
Laer. This nothing's more than matter.
Oph. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
Laer. A document in madness; thoughts and remembrance fitted.
Oph. There's fennel for you, and columbines :there's rue for you ; and here's some for me :-we may call it, herb of grace o Sundays :-you may wear your rue with a difference.7—There's a daisy :would give you some violets; but they withered all, when my father died :—They say, he made a good end, For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy,
[Sings. Laer. Thought 8 and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favour, and to prettiness. Oph. And will he not come again ? [Sings.
And will he not come again?
No, no, he is dead,
Go to thy death-bed,
And we cast away moan ;
6 The burthen. 7i.e. By its Sunday name “ herb of grace” mine is merely
rue, i, e. sorrow.