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A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.
Ham. Why, then the Polack never will defend it. Cap. Yes, 'tis already garrison'd.
Ham. Two thousand souls, and twenty thousand ducats,
Will not debate the question of this straw:
Ros. Will't please you go, my lord?
How all occasions do inform against me,
That capability and godlike reason
To fust in us unus'd. Now, whether it be
Of thinking too precisely on the 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 say, This thing's to do;
Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means,
To do't. Examples, gross as earth, exhort me:
Witness, this army of such mass, and charge,
Exposing what is mortal, and unsure,
To all that fortune, death, and danger, dare,
When honour's at the stake. How stand I then,
Go to their graves like beds; fight for a plot,
SCENE V. Elsinore. A Room in the Castle.
Enter Queen and HORATIO.
I will not speak with her.
Hor. She is importunate; indeed, distract;
Her mood will needs be pitied.
Queen. What would she have?
Hor. She speaks much of her father; says, she hears, There's tricks i'the world; and hems, and beats her
Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt,
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; Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield
Indeed would make one think, there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.
Queen. Twere good, she were spoken with; for she may strew
Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds:
Let her come in.
To my sick soul, as sin's true nature is,
Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss :
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
Re-enter HORATIO, and OPHELIA.
Oph. Where is the beauteous majesty 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 sandal shoon.
Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?
Oph. Say you? nay, pray you, mark.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
Queen. Nay, but Ophelia,-
King. How do you, pretty lady?
Oph. Well, God'ield 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, say you this:
Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning betime,
To be your Valentine:
King. Pretty Ophelia !
Oph. Indeed, without an oath, I'll make an end on't:
By Gis, and by Saint Charity,
Alack, and fye for shame!
Young men will do't, if they come to't;
By cock, they are to blame.
Quoth she, before you tumbled me,
So would I ha' done, by yonder sun,
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 [Exit HORATIO. O! this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father's death: And now behold, O Gertrude, Gertrude,
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
Next, your son gone; and he most violent author
In hugger-mugger to inter him: Poor Ophelia
Her brother is in secret come from France: