HAMLET. William Shakespeare

Queen.

       Alas, look here, my lord!

       Oph.

       [Sings.]

       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 dild 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 you, let’s have no words of this; but when they ask you what

       it means, say you this:

       [Sings.]

       Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day

       All in the morning bedtime,

       And I a maid at your window,

       To be your Valentine.

       Then up he rose and donn’d his clothes,

       And dupp’d the chamber door,

       Let in the maid, that out a maid

       Never departed more.

       King.

       Pretty Ophelia!

       Oph.

       Indeed, la, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t:

       [Sings.]

       By Gis and by Saint Charity,

       Alack, and fie 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.

       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 would 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. 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 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

       Give, me superfluous death.

       [A noise within.]

       Queen.

       Alack, what noise is this?

       King.

       Where are my Switzers? let them guard the door.

       [Enter a Gentleman.]

       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 offices. 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!’

       Queen.

       How cheerfully on the false trail they cry!

       O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs!

       [A noise within.]

       King.

       The doors are broke.

       [Enter Laertes, armed; Danes following.]

       Laer.

       Where is this king?—Sirs, stand you all without.

       Danes.

       No, let’s come in.

       Laer.

       I pray you, give me leave.

       Danes.

       We will, we will.

       [They retire without the door.]

       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 brow

       Of my true mother.

       King.

       What is the cause, Laertes,

       That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?—

       Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person:

       There’s such divinity doth hedge a king,

       That treason can but peep to what it would,

       Acts little of his will.—Tell me, Laertes,

       Why thou art thus incens’d.—Let him go, Gertrude:—

       Speak, man.

       Laer.

       Where is my father?

       King.

       Dead.

       Queen.

       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!