In mincing with his fword her husband's limbs; Pol. Look whether he has not turned his colour, and has tears in's eyes. Pr'ythee, no more. Ham. 'Tis well. I'll have thee fpeak out the reft of this foon. Good my Lord, will you fee the players well beftowed? Do ye hear, let them be well ufed; for they are the abstract and brief chroniclers of the time. After your death, you were better have a bad epitaph, than their ill report while you lived. Pol. My Lord, I will ufe them according to their defert. Ham. God's bodikins, man, much better. Ufe every man after his defert, and who fhall 'fcape whipping use them after your own honour and dignity. The less they deferve, the more merit is in your hounty. Take them in. Pol. Come, Sirs. [Exit Polonius. Ham. Follow him, friends: we'll have a play tomorrow. Doft thou hear me, old friend, can you play the murder of Gonzago? Play. Ay, my Lord. Ham. We'll ha't to-morrow night. You could, for a need, study a speech of fome dozen or fixteen lines, which I would fet down and infert in't? could ye not? Play. Ay, my Lord. Ham Very well. Follow that Lord, and look you mock him not. My good friends, I'll leave you 'till night: you are welcome to Elfinoor. Rof. Good my Lord. J [Exeunt. Manet HAMLET. Ham. Ay, fo, God b'w'ye. Now I am alone, Oh, what a rogue and peasant flave am I! Is it not monftrous that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of paffion, Could force his foul fo to his own conceit, That, from her working, all his visage warmed Tears in his eyes, diftraction in his afpect, A broken voice, and his whole function fuiting, With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing? For Hecuba? What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her? what would he do, A damned defeat was made. Am I a coward? That I, the fon of a dear father murdered, For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak (32) And fall a curfing like a very drab A ftallion. But why a ftellion? The two old Folios have it, a fcullion; but that too is wrong. I am perfuaded Shakespeare wrote as I have reformed the text, a cullion, i. é. a stupid, heartless, faint-hearted, white-livered fellow; one good for nothing, but curfing and talking big. So, in King Lear; I'll make a fop o' th' moonshine of you; you whorfon, cullionly barbermonger, draw, 2 Henry VI. Away, bafe cullions !—-Suffolk, let 'em go. The word is of Italian extraction, from coglione; which, in its metaphorical fignification, (as La Crufca defines it) diceft ancor coglione per ingiuria in ferfo di balardo,is faid by way of reproach to a ftupid, good-for-nothing blockhead. VOL. XII. G. Enter King, Queen, POLONIUS, OPHELIA, ROSINCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN, and Lords. KING. AND can you by no drift of conference Rof. He does confefs, he feels himself distracted; But from what cause he will by no means speak. Guil. Nor do we find him forward to be founded; But with a crafty madness keeps aloof, When we would bring him on to fome confeffion Of his true ftate. Queen. Did he receive you well? Rof. Moft like a gentleman. Guil. But with much forcing of his difpofition.. Ref. Niggard of question, but of our demands Moft free in his reply. Queen. Did you allay him to any pastime? Pol. 'Tis most true: And he befeeched me to intreat your Majefties King. With all my heart, and it doth much conTo hear him fo inclined. [tent me Good gentlemen, give him a further edge, [Exeunt King. Sweet Gertrude, leave us too; Queen. I fhall obey you: And for my part, Ophelia, I do with, Of Hamlet's wildness! So fhall I hope, your virtues To both your honours. Oph. Madam, I wifh it may, [Exit Queen. Pol. Ophelia, walk you here.-Gracious, fo please ye, We will beftow ourfelves. That fhew of fuch an exercise Your loneliness. -Read on this book; may colour We're oft to blame in this, 'Tis too much proved, that with devotion's vifage, And pious action, we do fugar o'er The devil himself. King Oh, 'tis too true. How fimart a lafh that fpeech doth give my confcience! [Afide. The harlot's cheek, beautied with plaiftring art, Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it, Than is my deed to my molt painted word. Oh heavy burden! Pol. 1 hear him coming; let's withdraw, my Lord, [Exeunt all but Ophelia. |