When sorrows come, they come not single spies, pers, For good Polonius' death; and we have done but greenly,6 In hugger-mugger" to inter him: Poor Ophelia Queen. [A noise within. Alack! what noise is this? Enter a Gentleman. King. Attend. Where are my Switzers! Let them guard the door: What is the matter? Gent. Save yourself, my lord; The ocean, overpeering of his list,9 Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste, Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, 6 Without judgment. 7 Privately. 8 Guards. 9 Bounds. O'erbears your officers! The rabble call him, lord; 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! I Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! O, this is counter,2 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 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 Even here, between the chaste unsmirched 3 brow Of my true mother. King. What is the cause, Laertes, I Scent. 2 Hounds run counter when they trace the scent backwards. 3 Clean, undefiled. That thy rebellion looks so giant-like? Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person; That treason can but peep to what it would, Why thou art thus incens'd;-Let him go, Gertrude ; Speak, man. 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,— That both the worlds I give to negligence, Let come what comes; only I'll be reveng'd Most thoroughly for my father. King. 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. King. 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. King. Will you know them then? Laer. To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my arms; And, like the kind life-rend'ring pelican, King. 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 'pear,4 As day does to your eye. Danes. [Within.] Let her come in. Laer. How now! what noise is that? Enter OPHELIA, fantastically dress'd with Straws and O heat, dry up my brains! tears seven times salt, O heavens is't possible, a young maid's wits Oph. They bore him barefac'd on the bier; And in his grave rain'd many a tear ;— Fare you well, my dove! 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. O, 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's some for me :-we may call it, herb of grace o'Sundays :-you may wear your rue with a difference.-There'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,— 8 [Sings. Laer. Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favour, and to prettiness. Oph. And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead, Go to thy death-bed, He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll: He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan; 6 The burthen. [Sings. 7 i. e. By its Sunday name "herb of grace'' mine is merely Melancholy. |