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Or for some frontier ?

Cap. Truly to speak, sir, and with no addition,
We go to gain a little patch of ground,
That hath in it no profit but the name.
To

pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it;
Nor will it yield to Norway, or the Pole,
A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.

Ham. Why, then the Polack never will defend

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Cap. Yes, 'tis already garrison'd.
Ham. Two thousand souls, and twenty thousand

ducats,
Will not debate the question of this straw:
This is the imposthume of much wealth and peace;
That inward breaks, and shows no cause without
Why the man dies.-I humbly thank you,

sir.
Čap. God be wi' you, sir. [Exit Captain
Ros.

Will't please you go, my lord ? Ham. I will be with you straight. Go a little before,

[Exeunt Ros. and GUIL.
How all occasions do inform against me,
And spur my dull revenge! What is a man,
If his chief good, and market of his time,
Be but to sleep, and feed? a beast, no more.
Sure, he, that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before, and after, gave us not
That capability and godlike reason
To fust* in us unus'd. Now, whether it be
Bestial oblivion, or some craven' scruple
Of thinking too precisely on the event, -
A thought, which quarter'd, hath but one part wis-

dom,
And, ever, three parts coward, - I do not know
Why yet I live to say, This thing's to do;
Sitho I have cause, and will, and strength, and means,
To do 't. Examples, gross as earth, exhort me:

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Cowardly.

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Witness, this army of such mass, and charge,
Led' by a delicate and tender prince ;
Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff'd,
Makes mouths at the invisible event;
Exposing what is mortal, and unsure,
To all that fortune, death, and danger, dare,
Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be great,
Is, not to stir without great argument;
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw,
When honour 's at the stake. How stand I then,
That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd,
Excitements of

my reason,

and

my blood, And let all sleep? while, to my shame, I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men, That, for a fantasy, and trick of fame, Go to their graves like beds ; fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough, and continent, To hide the slain ? — 0, from this time fort My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! (Erit.

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 sandal shoon.? [Singing.

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

He is dead and gone, lady, [Sings.
He is dead and

gone :
At his head a grass-green turf,

At his heels a stone.

O, ho!

Queer. Nay, but Ophelia,

7 Shoes.

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! They say, the owl was a baker's daughter. We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

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.
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.

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

[Exit 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,

VOL. X.

T

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?

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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, Laertes shall be king, Laertes king!

8 Bounds.

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