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Exeunt gent.

To keepe it felfe from noyance, but much more
That spirit, vpon whose weale depends and rests
The liues of many, the cesse of maiefty
Dies not alone; but like a gulfe doth draw
What's neere it, with it, or it is a maffie wheele
Fixt on the somnet of the highest mount,
To whose hugh* fpokes, tenn thousand lesser things
Are morteist and adioynd, which when it falls,
Each small annexment, pety confequence
Attends the boystrous raine, neuer alone
Did the king figh, but a generall growne t.

King. Arme you I pray you to this speedy voiage,
For we will fetters put about this feare
Which now goes too free-footed.
Rof. We will halt vs.

Enter Polonius.
Pol. My lord, he's going to his mothers closet,
Behind the arras I'le conuay my selfe
To here the professe, l'le warrant shee'le tax him home,
And as you said, and wisely was it fayd,
Tis meete that some more audience then a mother,
Since nature makes them partiall, should ore-heare
Thc speech of vantage; fare you well my leige,
I'le call vpon you ere you go to bed.
And tell you what I know.

King. Thankes deere my lord.
O my offence is rancke, it smels to heauen,
It hath the primall eldest curse vppont,
A brothers murther, pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will,
My stronger guilt defeats my stronge entent
And like a man to double busines bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first beginne,
bough, buge. tgrone,



And both neglect : what if this cursed hand
Were thicker then it felfe with brothers blood,
Is there not raine enough in the sweete heauens
To wash it white as snow? whereto ferues mercy
But to confront the vilage of offence ?
And what's in praier but this two-fold force,
To be forestalled ere we come to fall,
Or pardon being downe, then l'le looke vp.
My faults is past, but oh! what forme of prayer
Can serue my turne? forgiue me my foule murther;
That cannot be since I am still posseft
Of those affects * for which I did the murther ;
My crowne, mine owne ambition, and my queene ;
May one be pardoned and retaine th' offence ?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offences guided + hand may show by iustice,
And oft tis feene the wicked prize it felfe
Buyes out the law, but tis not so abpue,
There is no shufling, there the action lies
In his true nature, and we our felues compeld
Euen to the teeth and forehead of our faults
To giue in euidence: what then, what rests?
Try what repentance can, what can it not,
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent ?
O wretched state, o bosome blacke as death,
O limed foule, that struggling to be free,
Art more ingaged ! helpe angles make assay,
Bow stubborne knees, and hart with strings of feeles
Be soft as finnewes of the new borne babe,
All may be well

Enter Hamlet.'
Ham. Now might I doe it, but now a is a praying,
And now lle doo't, and so a goes to heauen,

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And so am I reuendge, that would be fcand
A villaine kills my father, and for that,
I his sole sonne, doe this same villaine send
To heauen.
Why, this is base and filly.- not reuendge,
A tooke my father grosely, full of bread,
Withall his crimes broad blowne as flush as May,
And how his audit stands who knowes faue heauen,
But in our circumstance and course of thought,
Tis heauy with him : and am I then reuendged
To take him in the purging of his soule,
When he is fit and seasoned for his passage ?
Vp sword, and know thou a more horrid hent,
When he is drunke, a neepe, or in his rage,
Or in th'incestious pleasure of his bed,
At game, a swearing, or about some act
That has no relish of faluation in't.
Then trip him that his heele mas kick at heauen,
And that his soule may be as damnd and blacke
As hell whereto it goes; my mother staies,
This phisicke but prolongs thy sickly daies.

King. My words fly vp, my thoughts remaine below
Words without thoughts neuer to heauen goe. Exit.

Enter Gertrard and Polonius.
Polo. A will come strait, looke you lay home to him,
Tell him his prancks haue beene too broad to beare with,
And that your grace hath screen's and stood betweene
Much heate and him, Ile silence me euen heere,
Pray you be round.

Enter Hamlet.
Ger. Ile waite you, feare me not,
With-draw, I heare him comming.


Ham. Now mother, whats the matter ?
Ger. Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.
Ham. Mother you haue my father much offended.
Ger. Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.
Ham. Goe goe, you question with a wicked tongue.
Ger. Why how now Hamlet ?
Ham. What's the matter now?
Ger. Haue you forgot me?

Ham. No by the rood not fo,
You are the queene, your husbands brothers wife,
And would it were not so, you are my mother.

Ger. Nay then Ile set those to you that can speake.

Ham. Come, come, and sit you downe, you shall not boudge, You goe not till I set you vp a glasse Where you may see the most part of you.

Ger. What wilt thou doe, thou wilt not murther me?
Helpe hoe.

Pol. What hoe helpe.
Ham. How now, a rat, dead for a duckat, dead.
Pol, o I am slaine.
Ger. O me, what hast thou done ?
Ham. Nay I know not, is it the king?
Ger. O what a rash and bloody deede is this.

Ham. A bloody deede, almost as bad good mother
As kill a king, and marry with his brother.

Ger. As kill a king.

Ham. I lady, it was my word.
Thou wretched, rash, intruding foole farewell,
I tooke thee for thy better, take thy fortune,
Thou find'st to bee too bufie is some danger.
Leaue wringing of your hands, peace fit you downe,
And let me wring your heart, for fo I shall
If it be made of penetrable stuffe,


If damned custome haue nor brasd it so,
That it be proofe and bulwark against sence.

Ger. What haue I done, that thou dar'lt wagge thy tongue In noyfe so rude against me ?

Ham. Such an act
That blurres the grace and blush of modesty,
Calls vertue hipocrit, takes of the rose
From the fair forhead of an innocent loue,
And fets a blister there, makes mariage vowes
As false as dicers oathes, Oh such a deed !
As from the body of contraction pluckes
The very foule : and sweet religion makes
A rapsody of words; heauens face dooes glow
Ore this folidity and compound masse
With heated visage, as against the doome
Is thought-fick at the act.

Quee. Ay me what act.?

Ham. That roares fo low'de and thunders in the index,
Looke here vpon this picture, and on this,
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers,
See what a grace was seated on his * browe,
Hiperions curles, the front of loue him-selfe,
An eye like Mars, to threten and command,
A station like the herald Mercury,
New lighted on a heaue, a kissing hill,
A combination and forme indeede,
Where euery god did seeme to fet his feale
To giue the world assurance of a man,
This was your husband, looke you now what followes,
Heere is your husband like a mildewed eare,
Blasting his wholesome brother : haue you eyes ?
Could you on this faire mountaine leaue to feede,
And batton on this moore; ha, haue you eyes?

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