Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,
And for the day confin'd, to faft in fire,
Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature
Are burnt and purg'd away. But that I am fo
To tell the fecrets of my prifon-house,

am forbid

I could a tale unfold, whofe lightest word
Would harrow up, thy foul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes, like ftars, ftart from their spheres,
Thy knotty and combined locks to part

And each particular hair to stand on end
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine:
But this eternal blazon must not be

To ears of flesh and blood; lift, list, oh list!
If thou did't ever thy dear father love

HAM. O heav'n!

t

GHOST. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murther. HAM. Murther?

GHOST, Murther most foul, as in the best it is;

f

But this most foul, ftrange, and unnatural.

HAM. Hafte me to know it, that I, with wings as fwift As meditation, or the thoughts of love,

May fly to my revenges (69

GHOST. I find thee, apt

And duller should't thou be, than the fat weed

M

3

40

That roots itself in eafe on Lethe's wharf,
Would't thou not fir, in this. Now, Hamlet, hear;
fleeping in my orchard,

'Tis giv'n out, that,

A ferpent ftung me.

So the whole ear of Denmark

Is by a forged procefs of my death

Rankly abus'd but know, thou noble youth,
The ferpent that did fting thy father's life

Now wears his crown.

+

!

HAM. Oh, my prophetic foul! my uncle GHOST. Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beaft, With witchcraft of his wit, with trait'rous gifts,,

(O wicked

(O wicked wit, and gifts, that have the power
So to feduce !) won to his fhameful luft-tronarz
The will of my most feeming virtuous queen.!
Oh Hamlet, what a falling off was there!

But foft! methinks I fcent the morning air-
Brief let me be: Sleeping within mine orchard,
My cuftom always in the afternoon,

Upon my fecure hour, thy uncle ftole
With juice of curfed hebony in a phial,
And in the porches of mine ears did pour
The leperous diftilment.

Thus was I, fleeping, by a brother's hand,

Of life, of crown, of Queen, at once bereft ;
Cut off even in the bloffoms of i

f my fin;

No reck'ning made! but fent to
With all my imperfections on my1
HAM.

thead!

Oh horrible! oh horrible! most horrible!
GHOST. If thou haft nature in thee, bear it not;
But howfoever thou purfu'ft this act,

Taint not thy mind, nor let thy foul contrive
Against thy mother aught; leave her to heav'n,
And to those thorns that in her bofom lodge,
To prick and fting her. Fare thee well at once!
The glow-worm fhews the matin to be near,

And 'gins to pale his ineffectual fire.

Adieu, adieu, adieu remember me.

HAM. Oh, all you hoft of heav'n! oh earth! what else?
And shall I couple hell? oh fie! hold my heart!
And you, my finews, grow not inftant old,
But bear me ftiffly up. Remember thee!
Ay, thou poor ghoft, while memory holds a feat
In this distracted globe; remember thee!
Yea, from the tablet of my memory

I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All faws of books, all forms, all preffures paft,

That

That youth and obfervation copied there jim te law DN And thy commandment all alone fhall live

Within the book and volume of my brain,

Unmix'd with bafer matter.

SHAKESPEARE.

CHAP. XXX.

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.

To be, or not to be?-that is the queftion.-
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to fuffer
The flings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a fea of troubles,
And by oppofing end them?-To die,-to fleep-
No more; and by a fleep, to fay, we end
The heart-ach, and the thousand natural fhocks
That flesh is heir to ;-'Tis a confummation
Devoutly to be with'd. To die-to fleep-

To fleep! perchance to dream! ay, there's the rub
For in that fleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us paufe.-There's the respect

That makes calamity of fo long life:

For who would bear the whips and scorns o' th' time,
Th' oppreffor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of defpis'd love, the law's delay,
The infolence of office, and the fpurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin ?. Who would fardels bear,
Το
and fweat under a weary
groan
But that the dread of fomething after death
(That undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns) puzzles, the will;
And makes us rather bear thofe ills we have,

life;

Than

Than fly to others that we know not of ?
Thus confcience does make cowards of us all :
And thus the native hue of refolution but
Is ficklied o'er with the pale caft of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lofe the name of action.

SOLILOQUY OF THE KING IN HAMLET.

OH! my offence is rank, it smells to heav'n,
It hath the primal, eldest curfe upon't;
A brother's murder Pray I cannot :
Though inclination be as sharp as 'twill,
My ftronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I ftand in paufe where I fhall firft begin,
And both neglect. What if this curfed hand
Were thicker than itfelf with brother's blood?
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heav'ns
To wash it white as fnow? Whereto ferves mercy,
But to confront the visage of offence?

And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force,
To be foreftalled ere we come to fall,

Or pardon'd being down?

My

fault is paft.

Then I'll look up;

-But oh, what form of prayer

Can ferve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder!
That cannot be, fince I am still poffefs'd

Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardon'd, and retain the offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice;

www

And

And oft 'tis feen, the wicked prize itself i
Buys out the laws. But 'tis not fo above.
There is no fhuffling; there the action fies
In its true nature, and we ourselves compell'd,
Ev'n to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? what refts?
Try what repentance can: what can it not?
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?
Oh wretched ftate! oh bofom black as death!
Oh limed foul, that, ftruggling to be free,

Art more engag'd! Help, angels ! make affay !
Bow, ftubborn knees; and, heart, with ftrings of steel,
Be foft as finews of the new-born babe!

All may be well.

SHAKESPEARE.

CHAP. XXXII.

ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

DESCEND, ye Nine! defcend and fing :

The breathing inftruments infpire,

Wake into voice each filent string,
And sweep the founding lyre!

In a fadly-pleafing strain

Let the warbling lute complain :

Let the loud trumpet sound,

Till the roofs all around

The fhrill echoes rebound:

While in more lengthen'd notes and flow
The deep, majeftic, folemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers foft and clear
Gently fteal upon the ear;

Now louder, and yet louder rife,

And fill with spreading founds the skies;

Exulting