Ros. Will't please you go, my lord? Ham. I will be with you straight. Go a little before. [Exeunt Ros. and Guil. How all occasions do inform against me, To fust in us unus'd. Now, whether it be Of thinking too precisely on the event, A thought, which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom, Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means, Excitements of my reason, and my blood, SCENE V. ELSINORE. A Room in the Castle. Enter QUEEN and HORATIO. Queen. -I will not speak with her. Queen. What would she have? Hor. She speaks much of her father; says, she hears, There's tricks i'the world; and hems, and beats her heart; Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt, That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts; Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures, yield them, Indeed would make one think, there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. Queen. "Twere good she were spoken with; for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds: [Exit Horatio. To my sick soul, as sin's true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss: It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. Re-enter HORATIO, with OPHELIA. Oph. Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark? Queen. How now, Ophelia? Oph. How should I your true-love know From another one? By his cockle hat and staff, And his sandal shoon. [Singing. Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song? Oph. Say you? nay, pray you, mark. , ho! He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, [Sings. Queen. Nay, but Ophelia, Oph. Pray you, mark. White his shroud as the mountain snow, [Sings. Enter KING. Queen. Alas, look here, my lord. Oph. Larded all with sweet flowers; King. How do you, pretty lady? Oph. Well, God 'ield you! They say, the owl was a 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, let us have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this: Good morrow, 'tis saint Valentine's day, And I a maid at your window, Then up he rose, and don'd his clothes, King. Pretty Ophelia! Oph. Indeed, without an oath, I'll make an end on't: By Gis, and by saint Charity, Young men will do't, if they come to't; Quoth she, Before you tumbled me, So would I ha' done, by yonder sun, King. How long hath she been thus? Oph. I hope, all will be well. We must be patient: but I cannot choose but weep, to think, they should la 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. you. [Exit. King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray When sorrows come, they come not single spies, Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Queen. King. Attend. [A Noise within. Alack! what noise is this? Enter a Gentleman. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door: What is the matter? Gent. 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, They cry, Choose we; Laertes shall be king! Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds, Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs. King. The doors are broke. [Noise within. Enter LAERTES, armed; Danes following. Laer. Where is this king?—Sirs, stand you all without. Dan. No, let's come in. Laer. Dan. We will, we will. I pray you, give me leave. [They retire without the Door. Laer. I thank you :-keep the door.-O thou vile king, Give me my father. Queen. Calmly, good Laertes. Laer. That drop of blood, that's calm, proclaims me bastard; Cries, cuckold, to my father; brands the harlot King. Why thou art thus incens'd;-Let him go, Gertrude ;—~ Laer. Where is my father? King. Queen. Dead. But not by him. 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,— |