Imatges de pàgina



D E N M A R K.



Printed in the YEAR 1709.

Laudius, King of Denmark.

Fortinbras, Prince of Norway.
Hamlet, Son to the former, and Nephew to the

prefent King
Polonius, Lord Chamberlain.
Horatio, Friend to Hamlet.
Laertes, Son to Polonius.
Cornelius, 2

Ofrick, a Fop.
Marcellus, an Officer.

two Soldiers. Reynoldo, Servant to Polonius. Ghost of Hamlet's Father.

Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, and Mother to Hamlet.
Ophelia, Daughter to Polonius, belov'd by Hamlet.
Ladies attending on the Queen,
Players, Grave-makers, Sailors, Messengers, and

other Attendants.



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Ho's there?

Fran. Nay, answer me: Stand and unfold


your self.

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Ber. Long live the King.
Fran. Bernardo

Ber. He.
Fran. You come most carefully upon your

Ber. 'Tis now struck Twelve, get thee to Bed, Francisco.

Fran. For this relief, much thanks : 'tis bitter cold,
And I am fick at Heart.
Ber. Have

you had quiet Guard?
Fran, Not a Mouse stirring.

Ber. Well, good Night. If you do meet Horatio and
Marcellus, the Rivals of my Watch, bid them make haste.

Enter Horatio and Marcellus.
Fran. I think I hear them. Stand; who's there?
Hor. Friends to this Ground,

Mar. And Liege-men to the Dane,
Fran. Give you good Night.
Mar. O, farewel

, honest Soldier, who hath reliev'd you? Fran. Bernardo has my place : give you good Night!

Exit Francisco.
Mar. Holla, Bernardo.
Ber. Say, what is Horatio there?
Hor. A piece of him.
Ber. Welcome, Horatio, welcome, good Marcellus.
Mar. What, has this thing appear'd again to Night?
Ber. I have seen nothing.

Mar. Horatio says, 'tis but our Phantasie,
And will not let belief take hold of him,
Touching this dreaded fight, twice seen of us,
Therefore I have intreated him along,
With us, to watch the minutes of this Night,
That if again this Apparition come,
He may approve our Eyes, and speak to it,

Hor. Tush, tush, 'twill not appear,

Ber. Sit down a while,
And let us once again affail your Ears,
That are so fortified against our story,
What we two Nights have seen.

Hor. Well, sit we down,
And let us hear Bernardo speak of this,

Ber. Last Night of all,
When yon same Star, that's Westward from the Pole,
Had made his course cillume that part of Heav'n
Where now it burns, Marcellus and my self,
The Bell then beating one
Mar. Peace, break thee off;

Enter the Ghoft.
Look where it comes again.

Ber. In the same figure like the King that's dead.
Mar. Thou art a Scholar, speak to it, Horatio.
Ber. Looks it not like the King? Mark it, Horatio. .
Hor. Most like: It harrows me with fear and wonder.
Ber. It would be spoke to.
Mar. Question it, Horatio.

Hor. What art thou that usurp'st this time of Night,
Together with that fair and warlike form,


In which, the Majesty of buried Denmark
Did sometimes march by Heav'n, I charge thee, speak.

Mar. It is offended.
Ber. See! it stalks away.
Hor. Stay; speak; speak : I charge thee, speak.

(Exit Gloft. Mar. 'Tis gone, and will not answer.

Ber. How now, Horatio? you tremble and look pale:
Is not this something more than Phantasie?
What think you on't?

Hor. Before my God, I might not this believe,
Without the sensible and true avouch
Of mine own Eyes.

Mar. Is it not like the King?

Hor. As thou art to thy self,
Such was the very Armour he had on, ,
When he th’ambitious Norway combated :
So frowo'd he once, when, in an angry parle,
He smote the sledded Pole-axe on the Ice.
'Tis strange

Mar. Thus twice before, and just at this fame Hour,
With Martial stalk, hath he gone by our Watch.

Hor. In what particular thought to work, I know not:
But in the gross and scope of my opinion,
This boads some strange eruption to our State.

Mar. Good now sit down, and tell me, he that knows,
Why this same strid and most observant Watch,
So nightly toils the subject of the Land:
And why such daily cast of Brazen Cannon
And foreign Mart for Implements of War:
Why such Impress of Shipwrights

, whose fore Task
Does not divide the Sunday from the Week.
What might be toward, that this sweaty hafte
Doth make the Night joint-labourer with the day :
Who is't that can inform me?

Har, That can J,
At least the Whisper goes so, Our last King,
Whose Image even but now appear'd to us,
Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway,
( Thereto prick'd on by a most emulate pride)
Dar'd to the combat. In which, our valiant Hamlet,


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