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How now,


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Oph. Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?

Oph. How should I your true love know

From another one ?
By his cockle hat and staff,

And his sandal shoon.
Alas, sweet lady! what imports this song?
Say you? nay, pray you, mark.
He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone ;
At his head a green grass turf,

At his heels a stone.
0, ho!

Queen. Nay, but Ophelia,

Pray you, mark.
White his shroud as the mountain snow ,

Enter King.
Queen. Alas! look here, my lord.
. Oph. Larded with sweet flowers;

Which bewept to the grave did not go,

With true - love showers.
King. How do you, pretty lady?
Oph. Well,

God ’ild you! They say, the owl was baker's daughter. Lord! we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table!

King. Conceit upon her father.

Oph. Pray you, let's have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this: 1

Good morrow, 't is Saint Valentine's day,

All in the morning betime ,
And I a maid at your window ,

To be your Valentine.



Then up he rose, and don'd his clothes ,

And dupp'd the chamber door ;
Let in the maid, that out a maid

Never departed more.
King. Pretty Ophelia !
Oph. Indeed, la! without an oath, I'll make an end on 't:

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King. How long hath she been thus?

176 Oph. I hope, all will be well. We must be patient; but I cannot choose but weep, to think, they would lay him i’ the cold ground. My brother shall know of it, and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies: good night, good night. (Exit. King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.


[Exit HORATIO. O! this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father's death. And now, behold, O Gertrude, Gertrude ! When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions. First, her father slain; Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Of his own just remove : the people muddied, Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers, For good Polonius' death; and we have done but greenly, 177 In hugger-mugger to inter him: poor Ophelia, Divided from herself, and her fair judgment, Without the which we are pictures, or mere beasts: Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France, Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds, And wants not buzzers to infect his ear With pestilent speeches of his father's death; Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd, Will nothing stick our persons to arraign In ear and ear. 0, my dear Gertrude! this, Like to a murdering piece, in many places Gives me superfluous death.

[A noise within. Queen.

Alack! what noise is this? |

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Enter a Gentleman.
King. Attend!
Where are my Switzers ? Let them guard the door.
What is the matter?

Save yourself, my lord;
The ocean, overpeering of his list,
Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste,
Than young Laertes, in a riotous head,
O’erbears your officers ! The rabble call him lord ;
And, as the world were now but to begin,
Antiquity forgot, custom not known,
The ratifiers and props of every word,
They cry, “Choose we; Laertes shall be king!”
Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds,
“Laertes shall be king, Laertes king!”

Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry!
0! this is counter, you false Danish dogs.
King. The doors are broke.

[Noise within. | 179

Enter LAERTES, armed; Danes following.,
Laer. Where is this king? Sirs, stand you all without.
Dan. No, let's come in.

I pray you, give me leave.
Dan. We will, we will.

[They retire without the Door.
Laer. I thank you: keep the door. O thou vile king,
Give me my father.

Calmly, good Laertes.
Laer. That drop of blood thato's calm proclaims me bastard;
Cries cuckold to my father; brands the harlot
Even here, between the chaste unsmirched brow
Of my true mother.

What is the cause, Laertes,
That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?
Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person:
There's such divinity doth hedge a king,
That treason can but peep to what it would,
Acts little of his will. Tell me, Laertes,
Why thou art thus incens'd

Gertrude. 1 180 Speak, man.

Laer. Where is my father?


But not by him.

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Let him go,


King. Let him demand his fill.

Laer. How came he dead? I'll not be juggled with.
To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil!
Conscience, and grace to the profoundest pit!
I dare damnation. To this point I stand ,
That both the worlds I give to negligence,
Let come what comes, only I'll be reveng'd
Most throughly for my father.

Who shall stay you?
Laer. My will, not all the world's:
And, for my .means, I'll husband them so well,
They shall go far with little.

Good Laertes,
If you desire to know the certainty
Of your dear father's death, is 't writ in your revenge,
That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and foe,
Winner and loser ?

Laer. None but his enemies.

Will you know them, then?
Laer. To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my arms;
And, like the kind life- rendering pelican,
Repast them with my blood.

Why, now you speak
Like a good child, and a true gentleman.
That I am guiltless of your father's death,
And am most sensibly in grief for it,
It shall as level to your judgment pierce,
As day does to your eye.

Danes. [Within.] Let her come in.
Laer. How now? what noise is that? |



O heat, dry up my brains! tears seven times salt,
Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!
By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight,
Till our scale turns the beam. O rose of May!
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!
O heavens! is 't possible, a young maid's wits
Should be as mortal as an old man's life?
Nature is fine in love; and, where 't
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves


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Oph. They bore him barefac'd on the bier ;
Hey non nonny, nonny,

hey nonny: And in his grave raind many a tear ; Fare well, my dove! | 183 Laer. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus.

Oph. You must sing, Down a-down, an you call him a-down-a. 0, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter.

Laer. This nothing 's more than matter.

Oph. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember; and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

Laer. A document in madness; thoughts and remembrance fitted.

Oph. There's fennel for you, and columbines: there 's rue for you; and here is some for me: we may call it, herb of grace o’Sundays:

you may wear your rue with a differThere's a daisy: I would give you some violets; but they withered all when my father died. They say, he made a good end, For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy,

[Sings. 184 Laer. Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favour, and to prettiness. Oph. And will he not come again?

[Sings. And will he not come again?

No, no, he is dead ,

Gone to his death - bed,
He never will come again.
His beard as white as snow,
All flaxen was his poll ;

He is gone, he is gone ,

And we cast away moan :

God ha' mercy on his soul!
And of all christian souls! I


God be wi' you!

[Exit OPHELIA. | 185 Laer. Do you see this, O God?

King. Laertes, I must common with your grief,
Or you deny me right. Go but apart,
Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will,
And they shall hear and judge 'twixt you and me.
If by direct, or by collateral hand

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