SCENE V.

ELSINORE.

A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

Enter Queen and Horatio.
Queen. —- I will not speak with her.

Hor. She is importunate; indeed, distract;
Her mood will needs be pitied.
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: Let her come in.

[Exit Horatio. To my

sick soul, as sin's true nature is,
Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss:
So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself, in fearing to be spilt.

Re-enter Horatio, with Ophelia. Oph. Where is the beauteous majesty of Den

mark? Queen. How now, Ophelia ?

Oph. How should I your true love know

From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,

And his sandul shoon.

[Singing

Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song? Oph. Say you? nay, pray you, mark.

[Sings.

He is dead and gone, lady,

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

At his heels a stone.

O, ho!

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;
Which bewept to the grave

did

go, With true-love showers.

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,

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

Valentine:

and don'd his clothes,
And dupp'd the chamber door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid

Never departed more.

Then up

he rose,

King. Pretty Ophelia!
Oph. Indeed, without an oath, I'll make an end

on't:

By Gis, and by Saint Charity,

Alack, and fye for shame!
Young men will do't, if they come to't;

By cock, they are to blame.
Quoth she, before you tumbled me,
You promis'd me to wed:

[He answers.]
So would I ha' done, by yonder sun,

An thou hadst not come to my bed.

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 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.

[Erit. King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.

[Erit 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, 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 person to arraign In ear and ear. O 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?

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, 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, Lacrtes shall be king, Laertes king ! Qucen. 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, arm’d; Danes following. Laer. Where is this king ?-Sirs, stand you all

without. Dan. No, let's come in. Laer.

I

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

[They retire without the door. Laer. I thank you:-keep the door.-0 thou

vile king,