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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:
This is the imposthume of much wealth and peace;
That inward breaks, and shews no cause without
Why the man dies. -I humbly thank you, sir.
Cap. God be wi'you, sir.

[Exit Captain.

Ros. Will't please you go, my lord?
Ham. I will be with you straight. Go a little before.
[Exeunt Ros. and GUIL.

How all occasions do inform against me,
And spur my dull revenge! What is a man,
If his chief good, and market of his time,
Be but to sleep, and feed? a beast, no more.
Sure, he, that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before, and after, gave us not

That capability and godlike reason

To fust in us unus'd. Now, whether it be
Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple

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,
Led by a delicate and tender prince;
Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff'd,
Makes mouths at the invisible event;

Exposing what is mortal, and unsure,

To all that fortune, death, and danger, dare,
Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be great,
Is, not to stir without great argument;
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw,

When honour's at the stake. How stand I then,
That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd,
Excitements of my reason, and my blood,
And let all sleep? while, to my shame, I see
The imminent death of twenty thousand men,
That, for a fantasy, and trick of fame,

Go to their graves like beds; fight for a plot,
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,
Which is not tomb enough, and continent,
To hide the slain?-O, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! [Exit.

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,
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; 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 :
So full of artless jealousy is guilt,

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.

O, ho!

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.


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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,
And I a maid at your window,

To be your Valentine:

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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,
You promis'd me to wed:
[He answers.]

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 [Exit HORATIO. O! this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father's death: And now behold, O Gertrude, Gertrude,

pray you.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions! First, her father slain;

Next, your son gone; and he most violent author
Of his own just remove: The people muddied,
Thick and unwholsome in their thoughts and whispers,
For good Polonius' death; and we have done but


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;

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