That we can let our beard be shook with danger, Mess. Enter a Messenger. 190 Letters, my lord, from Hamlet. This to your majesty: this to the queen. Mess. Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not: King. Leave us. Laertes, you shall hear them. [Exit Messenger. [Reads.] "High and mighty, you shall know, I am set naked on your kingdom. Tomorrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes; when I shall, first asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasions of my sudden and more strange return. HAMLET." What should this mean? Are all the rest come back? Or is it some abuse, and no such thing? And, in a postscript here, he says, "alone:" Laer. I'm lost in it, my lord. But let him come: That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, "Thus diddest thou." King. If it be so, Laertes, Ay, my lord; (As how should it be so? how otherwise?) Will you be ruled by me? Laer. So you will not o'er-rule me to a peace. King. To thine own peace. If he be now return'd, As checking at his voyage, and that he means No more to undertake it, I will work him To an exploit, now ripe in my device, Laer. My lord, I will be rul'd; The rather, if you could devise it so, It falls right. King. Laer. 193 Here was a gentleman of Normandy, Two months since, I have seen myself, and serv'd against the French, With the brave beast: so far he topp'd my thought, Come short of what he did. Laer. King. A Norman. A Norman, was 't? Laer. Upon my life, Lamord. King. The very same. Laer. I know him well: he is the brooch, indeed, And gem of all the nation. | 194 King. He made confession of you; And gave you such a masterly report, That he cried out, 't would be a sight indeed, If one could match you: the scrimers of their nation, If you oppos'd them. Sir, this report of his Laer. Laer. Why ask you this? | King. Not that I think you did not love your father, Dies in his own too much. That we would do, We should do when we would; for this "would" changes As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; And then this "should" is like a spendthrift sigh, To show yourself your father's son in deed, More than in words? Laer. The Frenchman gave you; bring you, in fine, together, Laer. I bought an unction of a mountebank, So mortal, that but dip a knife in it, King. 195 196 197 173 Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt, The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts; Hor. 'T were good she were spoken with, for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds. Let her come in. | Queen. To my sick soul, as sin's true nature is, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. Enter 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. [Singing. Queen. Alas, sweet lady! what imports this song? Oph. Say you? nay, pray you, mark: O, ho! | 174 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. [Singing. Pray you, mark. [Singing. White his shroud as the mountain snow, Enter King. Queen. Alas! look here, my lord. Oph. Larded with sweet flowers; Which bewept to the grave did not go, With true-love showers. King. How do you, pretty lady? 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: [ To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day, And I a maid at your window, Then, up he rose, and don'd his clothes, Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more. King. Pretty Ophelia ! Oph. Indeed, la! without an oath, I'll make an end on 't: By Gis, and by Saint Charity, Alack, and fie for shame! Young men will do 't, if they come to 't; Quoth she, before you tumbled me, 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 would 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 When sorrows come, they come not single spies, Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Of his own just remove: the people muddied, Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers, 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, 175 176 177 |