That we can let our beard be shook with danger,
And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more:
I loved your father, and we love ourself;
And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine,
How now! what news? |

Mess.

Enter a Messenger.

190

Letters, my lord, from Hamlet.

This to your majesty: this to the queen.
King. From Hamlet! who brought them?

Mess. Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not:
They were given me by Claudio, he receiv'd them
Of him that brought them.

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:"
Can you advise me? |

Laer. I'm lost in it, my lord. But let him come:
It warms the very sickness in my heart,

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,
Under the which he shall not choose but fall;
And for his death no wind of blame shall breathe,
But even his mother shall uncharge the practice,
And call it, accident. |

Laer.

My lord, I will be rul'd;

The rather, if you could devise it so,
That I might be the organ.

It falls right.

King.
You have been talk'd of since your travel much,
And that in Hamlet's hearing, for a quality
Wherein, they say, you shine: your sum of parts
Did not together pluck such envy from him,
As did that one; and that, in my regard,
Of the unworthiest siege,

Laer.
What part is that, my lord?
King. A very riband in the cap of youth,
Yet needful too; for youth no less becomes
The light and caseless livery that it wears,
Than settled age his sables, and his weeds,
Importing health and graveness.

193 Here was a gentleman of Normandy,

Two months since,

I have seen myself, and serv'd against the French,
And they can well on horseback; but this gallant
Had witchcraft in 't; he grew unto his seat;
And to such wond'rous doing brought his horse,
As he had been incorps'd and demi-natur'd

With the brave beast: so far he topp'd my thought,
That I, in forgery of shapes and tricks,

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,
For art and exercise in your defence,
And for your rapier most especially,

That he cried out, 't would be a sight indeed,

If one could match you: the scrimers of their nation,
He swore, had neither motion, guard, nor eye,

If you oppos'd them. Sir, this report of his
Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy,
That he could nothing do, but wish and beg
Your sudden coming o'er, to play with you.
Now, out of this,

Laer.
What out of this, my lord?
King. Laertes, was your father dear to you?
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow,
A face without a heart?

Laer.

Why ask you this? |

King. Not that I think you did not love your father,
But that I know love is begun by time;
And that I see, in passages of proof,
Time qualifies the spark and fire of it.
There lives within the very flame of love
A kind of wick, or snuff, that will abate it,
And nothing is at a like goodness still;
For goodness, growing to a pleurisy,

Dies in his own too much. That we would do,

We should do when we would; for this "would" changes
And hath abatements and delays as many,

As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents;

And then this "should" is like a spendthrift sigh,
That hurts by easing. But, to the quick o' the ulcer.
Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake,

To show yourself your father's son in deed,

More than in words?

Laer.
To cut his throat i' the church. |
King. No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize;
Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes,
Will you do this, keep close within your chamber.
Hamlet, return'd, shall know you are come home:
We'll put on those shall praise your excellence,
And set a double varnish on the fame,

The Frenchman gave you; bring you, in fine, together,
And wager on your heads: he, being remiss,
Most generous, and free from all contriving,
Will not peruse the foils; so that with ease,
Or with a little shuffling, you may choose
A sword unbated, and in a pass of practice
Requite him for your father. Da

Laer.
I will do't;
And, for that purpose, I'll anoint my sword. |

I bought an unction of a mountebank,

So mortal, that but dip a knife in it,
Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare,
Collected from all simples that have virtue
Under the moon, can save the thing from death,
That is but scratch'd withal: I'll touch my point
With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly,
It may be death.

King.
Let's farther think of this;
Weigh, what convenience, both of time and means,
May fit us to our shape. If this should fail,

195

196

197

173

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 them,
Indeed would make one think, there might be thought,
Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.

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,
Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss:
So full of artless jealousy is guilt,

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,
All in the morning betime,

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

Then, up he rose, and don'd his clothes,
And dupp'd the chamber door;

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;
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 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
All from her father's death. And now, behold,
O Gertrude, Gertrude!

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battallions. First, her father slain;

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,
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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