Cap. Against fome part of Poland.
Ham. Who commands them fir?

Cap. The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbrasse.
Ham. Goes it against the maine of Poland fir?
Or for fome frontire ?

Cap. Truely to fpeake, 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, fhould it bee fould in fee.

Ham. Why then the Pollacke neuer will defend it.

Cap. Yes it is already garifond.

Ham. Two thousand foules and twenty thousand duckets

Will not debate the question of this straw,

This is th' impoftume of much wealth and peace,

That inward breakes and fhewes no caufe without

Why the man dies. I humbly thanke you fir.
Cap. God buy you fir.

Rof. Wil't please you goe my lord?

Ham. Ile be with you straight, goe a little before.
How all occafions 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 fleepe and feed, a beaft, no more:
Sure he that made us with fuch large discourse
Looking before and after, gaue vs not
That capability and God-like reafon
To fuft in vs vnufd, now whether it be
Beftiall obliuion, or fome crauen fcruple
Of thinking too precifely 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 fay this thing's to doe,

Sith I haue caufe, and wil and flrength, and meanes
To doo't; examples groffe as earth exhort me,
Witnes this army of fuch maffe and charge,
Led by a delicate and tender prince,
Whose spirit with diuine ambition puft,
Make mouthes at the inuifible euent,
Expofing what is mortall, and vnfure,
To all that fortune, death and danger dare,
Euen for an Egge-fhell. Rightly to be great,
Is not to stirre without great argument,
But greatly to find quarrell in a straw

When, honour's at the ftake. How ftand I then
That haue a father kild, a mother ftaind,
Excytements of my reason, and my blood,
And let all fleepe, while to my fhame I fee
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 flaine. O from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth.

Enter Horatio, Gertrard, and a gentleman.

Quee. I will not speake with her.

Gen. She is importunat,

Indeed distract, her moode will needes be pittied.

Quee. What would fhe haue ?

Exit.

Gent. She fpeakes much of her father, fayes fhee heares
There's tricks i'th world, and hems, and beats her heart,
Spurnes enuiously at ftrawes, fpeakes things in doubt
That carry but halfe fence, her fpeech is nothing,

Yet the vnfhaped vfe of it doth moue

The hearers to collection, they yawne at it,

And

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 fure, yet much vnhappily.

Hora. Twere good she were spoken with, for she may ftrew
Dangerous coniectures in ill-breeding mindes,

Let her come in.

Enter Ophelia.

Quee. To my ficke foule, as finnes true nature is,
Each toy feemes prologue to fome great amisse,

So full of artleffe iealofie is guilt,

It fpills it felfe, in fearing to be spilt.

Oph. Where is the beauteous maiefty 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 shoone.

Quee. Alaffe fweet lady, what imports this fong?
Oph. Say you, nay pray you marke,

SONG.

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

Quee. Nay but Ophelia.

Oph. Pray you marke. White his fhrowd as the mountaine fnow.

Enter King.

Quee. Alaffe looke heere my lord.

SONG.

Ophe. Larded all with fweet flowers,

Which beweept to the ground did not go
With true loue showers.

ป

King. How doe you pretty lady?

Oph. Well good dild you, they fay 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 afke you what it meanes, fay 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 Ile make an end ont,

By gis and by faint charity,

Alacke and fie for fhame,

Young men will doo't if they come too't,

By cocke they are too blame.

Quoth fhe, before you tumbled me, you promifd me to wed, (He answers) So should I a done by yonder funne

And thou hadst 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 chufe but weepe to thinke they would lay him i'th cold ground my brother shall know of it, and fo 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.

O this is the poyson of deepe griefe, it fprings all from her fathers death, and now behold, O Gertrard, Gertrard, When forrowes come, they come not fingle fpies,

But in battalians: firft her father flaine,

Next, your fonne gone, and he most violent author
Of his owne iuft remoue, the people muddied
Thick and vnwholefome in thoughts, and whifpers
For good Polonius death: and we haue done but greenly
In hugger mugger to inter him: poore Ophelia
Deuided from herfelfe, 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 fecret come from France,

Feeds on this wonder, keepes himselfe in clowdes,
And wants not buzzers to infect his eare
With peftilent fpeeches of his fathers death,
Wherein neceffity of matter beggerd,
Will nothing stick our perfon to arraigne
In eare and eare: O my dear Gertrard, this
Like to a murdring-peece in many places
Giues me fuperfluous death.

Enter a messenger.

A noyfe within.

King. Attend, where are my Swiffers, let them guard the doore,

What is the matter?

Meffen. Saue your felfe my lord.

The ocean ouer-peering of his lift.

Eates not the flats with more impetuous* haft

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,

VOL. IV.

*inpitious.

S

Antiquity