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 nothing, 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 thoughts; 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. Queen. Let her come in. To my sick soul, as sin's true nature is, [Exit Horatio. Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss: It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. Re-enter HORATIO, with OPHELIA. 20 Oph. Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark? 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-green turf, At his heels a stone. Queen. Nay, but, Ophelia, 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; With true-love showers. King. How do you, pretty lady? 80 40 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 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: [Sings] To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day, All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine. Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes, And dupp'd the chamber-door; Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more. King. Pretty Ophelia! 50 Oph. Indeed, la, without an oath, I'll make an end on't: [Sings] By Gis and by Saint Charity, Young men will do't, if they come to❜t; 60 Quoth she, before you tumbled me, So would I ha' done, by yonder sun, An thou hadst not come to my bed. King. How long hath she been thus? Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be patient: but I cannot 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, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night. [Exit. King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you. [Exit Horatio. O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father's death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions. First, her father slain: Next, your son gone; and he most violent author 80 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 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, Queen. 90 [A noise within. Alack, what noise is this? King. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door. Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, O'erbears your 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, Choose we: Laertes shall be king:" They cry 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. 110 [Noise within. Enter LAERTES, armed; Danes following. Laer. Where is this king? Sirs, stand you all without. . Danes. No, let's come in. Laer. I pray you, give me leave. [They retire without the door. Danes. We will, we will. Laer. I thank you: keep the door. O thou vile king, Give me my father! Queen. 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 brow King. What is the cause, Laertes, 120 That thy rebellion looks so giant-like ? Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person: That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will. Tell me, Laertes, Why thou art thus incensed. Let him go, Gertrude. Speak, man. Laer. Where is my father? King. Queen. Dead. But not by him. I'll not be juggled 130 King. Let him demand his fill. with: |