Imatges de pÓgina

But look, the Morn in Russet Mantle clad,
Walks o'er the Dew of yon high Eastern Hill,
Break we our Watch up, and by my advice

Let us impart what we have seen to Night
Unto young Hamlet. For upon my life,
This Spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him:
Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it,
As needful in our Loves, fitting our duty?

Mar. Let's do't, I pray, and I this Morning know
Where we shall find him most conveniently. [Exeunt.

SCENE II. The Palace. Enter the King, Queen, Ophelia, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes,

Voltimand, Cornelius, Lords and Attendants. King. Though yet of Hamlet our dear Brother's Death, The Memory be green; and that it us befitted To bear our Hearts in grief, and our whole Kingdom To be contra&ed in one brow of woe; Yet fo far hath Discretion fought with Nature, That we with wiseft forrow think on him, Together with remembrance of our felves. Therefore our fometimes Sister, now our Queen, Th' Imperial Jointress of this warlike State, Have we, as 'twere, with a defeated joy, With one Auspicious, and one dropping Eye, With Mirth in Funeral, and with Dirge in Marriage, In equal Scale weighing Delight and Dole, Taken to Wife. Nor have we herein barr'd Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone With this Affair along, for all our thanks. Now follows, that you know young Fortinbras, Holding a weak supposal of our worth ; Or thinking by our late dear Brother's death, Our State to be disjoint, and out of frame, Colleagued with this Dream of his Advantage; He hath not fail'd to pester us with Message, Importing the surrender of those Lands Lost by his Father, with all Bonds of Law To our most valiant Brother. So much for him.. Now for our self, and for this time of meeting:




Thus much the Business is. We have here writ
To Norway, Uncle of young Fortinbras,
Who impotent and bedrid, scarcely hears
Of this his Nephew's purpose, to suppress
His further Gate herein. 'In that the Levies,
The Lifts, and full Proportions are all made
Out of his Subje&s; and we here dispatch
You, good Cornelius, and you Voltimand,
For bearing of this greeting to old Norway,
Giving to you no further personal Power
Of Treaty with the King, more than the scope
Of these dilated Articles allow.
Farewel, and let your hafte commend your Duty.

Vol. In that, and all things, will we shew our Duty?
King. We doubt in nothing, heartily farewel.

(Excunt Voltimand and Cornelius.
And now Laertes, what's the News with you?
You told us of some Suit. What is't, Laertes?
You cannot speak of Reason to the Dane,
And lose your Voice. What wouldst thou beg, Laertes,
That shall not be my Offer, not thy Asking?
The Head is not more native to the Heart,
The Hand more Instrumental to the Mouth,
Than is the Throne of Denmark to thy Father.
What wouldst thou have, Laertes?

Laer. Dread my Lord,
Your leave and favour to return to France;
From whence, though willingly I came to Denmark,
To fhew my Duty in your Coronation,
Yer now I must confess, that Ducy done,
My Thoughts and Wishes bend again towards France,
And bow them to your gracious Leave and Pardon.

King. Have you your Father's leave? what says Poloniss?

Pol. He hath, my Lord, by laboursome Petition,
Wrung from me my slow Leave; 'and at last
Upon his Will I seald my hard Consent;
I do beseech you give him leave to go.

King. Take thy fair Hour, Laertes, time be thine,
And thy best graces; spend it at thy Will.
But now, my Cousin Hamlet, and my Son

Ham. A little more than kin, and less than kind.
King. How is it that the Clouds still hang on you?


Ham. Not so, my Lord, I am too much i'th' Sun.

Queen. Good Hamlet cast thy nightly colour off,
And let thine Eye look like a Friend on Denmark.
Do not, for ever, with thy veiled Lids,
Seek for thy noble Father in the dust;
Thou know'st 'tis common, all that live must die,
Passing through Nature to Eternity.

Ham. Ay, Madam, it is common.

Queen. If it be;
Why seems it so particular with thee?

Ham. Scems, Madam Nay, it is; I know not Seems :
'Tis not alone my Inky Clcak, good Mother,
Nor customary Suies of solemn Black,
Nór wirdy Suspiration of forc'd breath,
No, nor the fruitful River in the Eye,
Nor the dejected haviour of the Visage,
Together with all Forms, Moods, thews of Grief;
That can denote me truly. These indeed Seem,
For they are A&ions that a Man might play;
But I have that within, which palleth show:
These, but the Trappings, and the Suits of woe.

King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your Nature, Hamletje To give these mourning Duties to your Father: But you must know, your Father loft a Father, That Father loft, lost his, and the Surviver bound In filial Obligation, for some term To do obsequious Sorrow. But to persevere In obstinate Condolement, is a course Of impious Stubbornness. 'Tis unmanly Grief, It shews a Will most incorrect to Heav'n, A Heart unfortified, a Mind impatient, An Understanding simple, and unschoold: For what we know must be, and is as common, As any the most vulgar thing to sense, Why should we, in our peevish Opposition, Take it to Heari? Fie! 'Tis a fault to Heav'n, A fault against the Dead, a fault to Nature, To Reason most absurd, whose common Theam Is death of Fathers, and who still hath cry'd, From the first Coarse, 'till he that died to Day, This must be so. We pray you throw to Earth


This unprevailing woe, and think of us,

As of a Father: For let the World take note,
You are the most immediate to our Throne,
And with no less Nobility of Love,
Than that which dearest Father bears his Son,
Do I impart towards you. For your intent
In going back to School to Wittenberg,
It is most retrograde to our Desire:
And we beseech you, bend you to remain
Here in the cheer and comfort of our Eye,
Our chiefest Courtier, Cousin, and our Son.

Queen. Let not thy Mother lose her Prayers, Hamlet; I prithee stay with us, go not to Wittenberg.

Ham. I shall in all my best obey you, Madam.

King. Why 'tis a loving, and a fair Reply,
Be as our self in Denmark. Madam, come,
This gentle and unforc'd accord of Hamlet
Sits smiling to my Heart, in grace whereof,
No jocund Health that Denmark drinks to Day,
But the great Cannon to the Clouds shall tell,
And the Kings Rowse, the Heav'n shall bruit again,
Re-speaking earthly Thunder.

Manet Hamlet.
Ham. O that this too too folid Flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve it self into a Dew;
Or that the Everlasting had not fixt
His Cannon ’gainst self flaughter. O God! O God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seems to me all the uses of this world.
Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded Garden
That grows to Seed; things rank, and gross in Nature
Possess it meerly. That it fhould come to this;
But two Months dead; nay, not so much; not two,
So excellent a King, that was, to this,
Hyperion to a Satyr: So loving to my Mother,
That he permitted Áot the Winds of Heav'n
Visit her face too roughly. Heav'n and Earth!
Must I remember?...--why she would hang on him,
As if increase of Appetite had grown
By what it fed on; and yet within a Month?
Let me not think on't... Frailty, thy Name is Woman:


Come away



A A little Month!or e'er those Shooes were old,
With which she follow'd my poor Father's Body,
Like Niobe, all tears-- Why the, even she,
O Heav'n! A Beast that wants discourse of Reason
Would have mourn'd longer--married with mine Uncle,
My Father's Brother ; but no more like my Father,
Than I to Hercules. Within a Month!
E'er yet the salt of most unrighteous Tears
Had left the flushing of her gauled Eyes,
She married. O most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous Sheets:
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But break, my Heart, for I must hold my Tongue.

Enter Horatio, Bernardo, and Marcellus.
Hor. Hail to your Lordship.
Ham. I am glad to see

to see you well, Horatio, or I do forget my

Hor. The same, my Lord, and your poor Servant ever. Ham. Sir, my good Friend, I'll change that Name with

you: And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio? Marcellus!

Mar. My good Lord

Ham, I am very glad to see you; good even, Sir. But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg ?

Hor. A truant Disposition, good my Lord.

Ham. I would not have your Enemy say so
Nor shall you do mine Ear that Violence,
To make it truster of your own report
Against your self. I know you are no Truant;
But what is your Affair in Ellinoor?
We'll teach you to drink deep e'er you depart.

Hor. My Lord, I came to see your Father's Funeral.

Ham. I prithee do not mock me, Fellow Student; I think it was to see my Mother's Wedding.

Hor. Indeed, 'my Lord, it follow'd hard upon.

Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio : The Funeral bak’d Meats Did coldly furnish forth the Marriage Tables ; Would I had met my dearest Foe in Heav'n, E'er I had ever seen that Day, Horatio.



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