Be but to fleep and feed? a beast, no more.
Sure he that made us with fuch large difcourfe,
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and god-like reason

To ruft in us unus'd. Now whether it be
Bestial oblivion, or fome craven fcruple

Of thinking too precisely on th' event,

(A thought which quarter'd hath but one part wisdom,
And ever three parts coward:) I do not know
Why yet I live to fay this thing's to do,

Sith I have caufe, and will, and ftrength, and means

To do't. Examples grofs as earth exhort me;
Witness this army of fuch mafs and charge,
Led by a delicate and tender prince,
Whose spirit with divine ambition puft
Makes mouths at the invifible event,
Expofing what is mortal and unfure

To all that fortune, death, and danger dare,
Ev'n for an egg-shell. 'Tis not to be great,
Never to ftir without great argument;

But greatly to find quarrel in a straw,

When honour's at the ftake. How ftand I then,
That have a father kill'd, a mother stain❜d,
(Excitements of my reason and my blood)
And let all fleep, while to my fhame I see
The imminent death of twenty thousand men,
That for a fantafie and trick of fame

Go to their graves like beds, fight for a spot
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,
Which is not tomb enough and continent
To hide the flain? O then from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth.

SCENE

SCENE V.

A Palace.

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.
Queen. What would he have?

Gent. She speaks much of her father; says she hears
There's tricks i'th' world, and hems, and beats her heart,
Spurns enviously at ftraws, speaks things in doubt
That carry but half fense: her speech is nothing,
Yet the unfhaped use of it doth move

The hearers to collection; they aim at it,

And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts,
Which as her winks, and nods, and geftures yield them,
Indeed would make one think there might be thought;
Though nothing fure, yet much unhappily.

Hor. 'Twere good the were spoken with, for fhe may ftrow Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.

Let her come in---

Queen. To my fick foul, as fin's true nature is, Each toy feems prologue to fome great amifs,

So full of artless jealousie is guilt,

It spills it self in fearing to be spilt.

Enter Ophelia distracted.

Oph. Where is the beauteous majefty of Denmark?

Queen. How now, Ophelia?

Oph. How Should I your true love know from another one?

By his cockle hat and staff, and his fandal fhoon. [Singing.

Queen. Alas, fweet lady; what imports this fong?
Oph. Say you? nay, pray you mark.

He's dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone,
At his head a grafs-green turf, at his heels a stone.

Enter King.

Queen. Nay, but Ophelia.-

Oph. Pray you mark.

White his browd as the mountain fnow.

Queen. Alas, look here, my lord.

Oph. Larded with Sweet flowers:

Which bewept to the grave did go,
With true-love showers.

King. How do ye, pretty lady?
Oph. Well, God dil'd 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 let us have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, fay you this:

To-morrow is St. Valentine's day, all in the morn betime,

And I a maid at your window, to be your Valentine.

Then up he rose, and don'd his cloaths, and dupt the chamber-door ; Let in a maid, that out a maid never departed more.

King. Pretty Ophelia !

Oph. Indeed? without an oath, I'll make an end on't.

By Gis, and by S. Charity;

Alack, and fie for shame,

Young men will do't, if they come tot,

By cock they are to blame

Quoth She, before you tumbled me,

You promis'd me to wed:

So

So would I ha' done, by yonder fun,

And thou hadst not come to my bed.

King. How long hath fhe been thus ?

Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be patient, but I cannot chufe but weep, to think they should lay him i'th' cold ground; my brother shall know of it, and fo I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach; good-night, ladies; good-night, fweet ladies; good-night, good-night. [Exit. King. Follow her close, give her good watch, I pray you; This is the poison of deep grief, it springs

All from her father's death. O Gertrude, Gertrude!
When forrows come, they come not fingle fpies,
But in battalions. First, her father flain,
Next your fon gone, and he most violent author
Of his own just remove; the people muddied,
Thick and unwholfome in their thoughts and whispers,
For good Polonius' death. We've done but greenly,
In private to inter him; poor Ophelia

Divided from her felf, and her fair judgment,
(Without the which we're pictures, or mere beasts:)
Last, and as much containing as all these,
Her brother is in fecret come from France,
Feeds on this wonder, keeps himself in clouds,
And wants not buzzers to infect his ear
With peftilent speeches of his father's death;
Wherein neceffity, of matter beggar'd,
Will nothing stick our perfons to arraign
In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this,
Like to a murdering piece in many places,
Gives me fuperfluous death!

[A Noife within.

SCENE

SCENE VI.

Enter a Meffenger.

King. Where are my Switzers? let them guard the door. What is the matter?

Mef. Save your felf, my lord.

The ocean over-peering of his list

Eats not the flats with more impetuous hafte,
Than young Laertes, in a riotous head,

O'er-bears 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;
They cry, chufe we Laertes for our King.
Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the Clouds..
Laertes fhall be King, Laertes King.

Queen. How chearfully on the false trail they cry,
Oh this is counter, you false Danish dogs.

Enter Laertes.

King. The doors are broke.

[Noife within.

Laer. Where is the King? Sirs! ftand you all without.

All. No let's come in..

Laer. I pray you give me leave.

All. 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,

Crys cuckold to my father, brands the harlot

Even here between the chafte and unfmich'd brow

Of my true mother.