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Cap. Against some part of Poland.
Ham. Who commands them fir ?
Cap. The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbrase.

Ham. Goes it against the maine of Poland fir ?
Or for some frontire ?

Cap. Truely to speake, and with no addition,
We goe to gaine a little patch of ground,
That hath in it no profit but the name
To pay fiue duckets, fiue I would not farme it?
Nor will it yeeld to Norway or the Pole
A rancker rate, should it bee sould in fee.

Ham. Why then the Pollacke neuer will defend it.
Cap. Yes it is already garisond.

Ham. Two thousand soules and twenty thousand duckets
Will not debate the question of this straw,
This is th’impostume of much wealth and peace, ,
That inward breakes and shewes no cause without
Why the man dies. I humbly thanke you fir.

Cap. God buy you fir.
Rof. Wilt please you goe my lord ?

Ham. Ile be with you straight, goe a little before.
How all occasions do informe against mee,
And spur my dull reuenge. What is a man
If his chiefe good and market of his time
Be but to sleepe and feed, a beast, no more:
Sure he that made us with such large discourse
Looking before and after, gaue vs not
That capability and God-like reason
To fust in vs vnusd, now whether it be
Beftiall obliuion, or some crauen fcruple
Of thinking too precisely on th' euent,
A thought which quartered hath but one part wisdome,
And euer three parts coward, I doe not know,
Why yet I liue to say this thing's to doe,

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Sith I haue cause, and wil and strength, and meancs
To doo't; examples grosse as earth exhort me,
Witnes this army of such masse and charge,
Led by a delicate and tender prince,
Whose spirit with diuine ambition puft,
Make mouthes at the invisible euent,
Exposing what is mortall, and vnsure,
To all that fortune, death and danger dare,
Euen for an Egge-shell. Rightly to be great,
Is not to stirre without great argument,
But greatly to find quarrell in a straw
When, honour's at the stake. How stand I then
That haue a father kild, a mother staind,
Excytements of my reason, and my blood,
And let all seepe, while to my shame I fec
The iminent death of twenty thousand men,
That for a fantasie and tricke of fame
Goe to their graues like beds, fight for a plot
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,
Which is not tombe enough and continent
To hide the slaine. O from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth.

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Enter Horatio, Gertrard, and a gentleman.
Quee. I will not speake with her.

Gen. She is importunat,
Indeed distract, her inoode will needes be pittied.

Quee. What would she haue ?

Gent. She speakes much of her father, fayes shee heares
There's tricks i'th world, and hems, and beats her heart,
Spurnes enuiously at strawes, speakes things in doubt
That carry but halfe fence, her speech is nothing,
Yet the vnshaped vse of it doth moue
The hearers to collection, they yawne at it,

And

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And botch the words vp fit to their owne thoughts,
Which as winckes, and nods, and gestures yeeld them,
Indeede would make one thinke there might be thought
Though nothing sure, yet mach vnhappily.

Hora. Twere good the were spoken with, for the may strew
Dangerous coniectures in ill-breeding mindes,
Let her come in.

Enter Ophelia.
Quee. ' To my ficke foule, as finnes true nature is,
• Each toy seemes prologue to some great amisse,
• So full of artlesse iealosie is guilt,
• It spills it felfe, in fearing to be spilt.

Oph. Where is the beauteous maiesty of Denmarke?
Quee. How now Ophelia.

She fings.
Oph. How should I your true loue know from another one,
By his cockle hat and staffe, and his fendall (hoone.

Quee. Alasse sweet lady, what imports this song ?
Oph. Say you, nay pray you marke,

SONG.
He is dead and gone lady, he is dead and gone,
At his head a grasse greene turph, at his heeles a stone.
O ho.

Quee. Nay but Ophelia.

Oph. Pray you marke. White his Throwd as the mountaine {now.

Enter King. Quee. Alafle looke heere my lord.

SONG.
Ophe. Larded all with sweet flowers,
Which beweept to the ground did not go
With true loue showers.

King. How doe you pretty lady ?

Oph. Well good dild you, they say the owle was a bakers daughter, lord wee know what wee are, but know not what we may be, God be at your table.

King. Conceit vpon her father.

Ophe. Pray lets haue no words of this, but when they aske you what it meanes, say you this.

SONG.

To morrow is S. Valentines day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a mayd at your window
To be your Valentine.
Then vp he rose, and dond his close, and dupt the chamber

doore,
Let in the maide, that out a maide, neuer departed more.

King. Pretty Ophelia.

Ophe. Indeed without an oath lle make an end ont,
By gis and by faint charity,

Alacke and fie for shame,
Young men will doo't if they come too't,

By cocke they are too blame. Quoth he, before you tumbled me, you promisd me to wed, (He answers) So sbould * I a done by yonder suone

And thou hadît not come to my bed. King. How long hath shee beene thus ?

Oph. I hope all will be well, we must be patient, but I cannot chuse but weepe to thinke they would lay him i'th cold ground my brother shall know of it, and so I thanke you for your good counfaile. Come my coach, god night ladies, god night, Sweet laides god night, god night.

King. Follow her close, giue her good watch I pray you.

* would.

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O this is the poyson of deepe griefe, it springs all from her
fathers death, and now behold, O Gertrard, Gertrard,
When sorrowes come, they come cot single spies,
But in battalians: first her father Naine,
Next, your sonne gone, and he most violent author
Of his owne iust remoue, the people muddied
Thick and vnwholesome in thoughts, and whispers
For good Polonius death : and we haue done but greenly
In hugger mugger to inter him: poore Ophelia
Deuided from herselfe, and her faire iudgement,
Without the which we are pictures, or meere beasts,
Last, and as much contayning as all these,
Her brother is in secret come from France,
Feeds on this wonder, keepes himselfe in clowdes,
And wants not buzzers to infect his eare
With peftilent speeches of his fathers death,
Wherein necessity of matter beggerd,
Will nothing stick our person to arraigne
In eare and eare : O my dear Gertrard, this
Like to a murdring-peece in many places
Giues me superfluous death.

A noyfe within.

Enter a mesenger.
King. Attend, where are my Swiffers, let them guard the

doore,
What is the matter?

Meslen. Saue your selfe my lord.
The ocean ouer-peering of his list.
Eates not the fats with more impetuous * halt
Then young Laertes in a riotous head
Ore-beares your officers : the rabble call him lord,
And as the world were now but to beginne,

inpirious,

VOL.IV.

S

Antiquity

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