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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, lift, oh lift ! · If thou did'ft ever thy dear father love

HAM. O heav'n!,
Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murther
Ham. Murther:

Ghost. Murther moft foul, as in the best it is;
But this most foul, strange and unnatural.

Ham. Haste me to know it, that I, with wings as Swift As meditation or the thoughts of love, May fly to my revenge:

Ghost. I find thee apt ;
And duller should'st thou be, than the fat weed
That roots itself in ease on Lethe's wharf,
Would'it thou not ftir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear:

Tis given out, that, sleeping in my orchard,
A serpent ftung me. So the whole ear of Denmark
Is by a forged process of my death
Rankly abus'd: but know, thou noble youth,
The serpent that did fting thy father's life,
Now wears his crown.

Ham. Oh, my prophetic soul! my uncle !

Ghost. Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beaft, With witchcraft of his wit, with trait'rous gifts, (O wicked wit, and gifts, that have the power So to seduce !) won to his shameful lụst The will of my mof seeming-virtuous Queen.. Oh Hamlet, what a falling off was there ! But soft! methinks I scent the morning air

Brief let me be : Sleeping within mine orchard,
My custom always in the afternoon,
Upon my fecure hour thy uncle stole
With juice of cursed hebony in a phial,
And in the porches of mine ear did pour
The leperous distilment.-
Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand,
Of life, of crown, of Queen, at once bereft ;
Cut off even in the blossoms of my fin ;
No reck’ning made ! but sent to my account.
With all my imperfections on my head !

Ham. Oh horrible ! oh horrible! most horrible !

Ghost. If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not i
But howsoever thou pursu'it this act,
Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive
Against thy mother aught ; leave her to heav'n,
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To prick and fing 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 host of heav'n! oh earth! what else!
And Mall I couple hell? oh fie ! hold my heart !
And you, my finews, grow'not instant old;
But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee !
Ay, thou pocr ghoft, while memory holds a feat
In this distracted globe ; remember thee !
Yea, from the table of my memory
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures paft,
That youth and observation copied there;
And thy commandment all alone fhall live

Within the book and volume of my brain,',
Unmix'd with baser matter.

SHAKESPEAR.

CH A P. XXX. HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.

T o be, or not to be that is the question.

1 Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them ?-To die,--to sleep-
No more; and by a sleep, to say, we end
The heart ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to ;-'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To dieto sleep- .
To sleep? perchance to dream ;- ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.—There's the respect

I hat makes calamity of so long life :
For who would bear the whips and scorns of th' time,
Th’oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pang of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’unworthy takes;
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life ;
But that the dread of something after death
(That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns) puzzles the will ;

And

And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all :
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is ficklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

HAKESPEAR,

CH A P. XXXI. SOLILOQUY OF THE KING IN HAMLET.

O H ! my offence is rank, it smells to heav'n,

It hath the primal, eldest curse upon’t; A brother's murder- Pray. I cannot: Though inclination be as sharp as 'twill, My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And like a man to double businefs bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood ? Is there not rain enough in the sweet heav'ns To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy, But to confront the visage of offence ? And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up; My fault is past. But on, what form of prayer. Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder! That cannot be, since I am still possess'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 th' offence ?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice;
And oft 'tis seen, the wicked prize itself
Buys out the laws. But 'tis not fo above.
There is no shuffling; there the action lies
In its true nature, and we ourselves compellid,
Ey'n to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? what rests ?
Try what repentance can : what can it not ?
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?
Oh wretched state? oh bosom black as death!
Oh limed soul, that, struggling to be free, .
Art more engag'd! Help, angels ! make affay!
Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart, with strings of steel,
Be soft as finews of the new-born babe !
All may be well.

SHAKESPEAR,

CH A P. XXXII.
ODE ON ST. CECILI A's DAY.

TESCEND, ye Nine! defcend and fing;

The breathing instruments inspire,
Wake into voice each filent ftring,
And sweep the founding lyre !

In a fadly-pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain :

Let the loud trumpet found,
'Till the roofs all around
The farill echoes rebound;

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