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

Witc Led Whe Mak Expo

Тоа

it.

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:

: Power

of comprehension.
Cowardly.

4 Grow mouldy.

6 Since,

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?

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.