Part 25

Enter Queene and Horatio.

Qu. I will not speake with her

Hor. She is importunate, indeed distract, her moode will needs be pittied

Qu. What would she haue? Hor. She speakes much of her Father; saies she heares There's trickes i'th' world, and hems, and beats her heart, Spurnes enuiously at Strawes, speakes things in doubt, That carry but halfe sense: Her speech is nothing, Yet the vnshaped vse of it doth moue The hearers to Collection; they ayme at it, And botch the words vp fit to their owne thoughts, Which as her winkes, and nods, and gestures yeeld them, Indeed would make one thinke there would be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much vnhappily

Qu. 'Twere good she were spoken with, For she may strew dangerous coniectures In ill breeding minds. Let her come in. To my sicke soule (as sinnes true Nature is) Each toy seemes Prologue, to some great amisse, So full of Artlesse iealousie is guilt, It spill's it selfe, in fearing to be spilt. Enter Ophelia distracted.

Ophe. Where is the beauteous Maiesty of Denmark

Qu. How now Ophelia? Ophe. How should I your true loue know from another one? By his Cockle hat and staffe, and his Sandal shoone

Qu. Alas sweet Lady: what imports this Song? Ophe. Say you? Nay pray you marke. He is dead and gone Lady, he is dead and gone, At his head a grasse-greene Turfe, at his heeles a stone. Enter King.

Qu. Nay but Ophelia

Ophe. Pray you marke. White his Shrow'd as the Mountaine Snow

Qu. Alas, looke heere my Lord

Ophe. Larded with sweet Flowers: Which bewept to the graue did not go, With true-loue showres

King. How do ye, pretty Lady? Ophe. Well, God dil'd you. They say the Owle was a Bakers daughter. Lord, wee know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your Table

King. Conceit vpon her Father

Ophe. Pray you let's haue no words of this: but when they aske you what it meanes, say you this: To morrow is S. Valentines day, all in the morning betime, And I a Maid at your Window, to be your Valentine. Then vp he rose, & don'd his clothes, & dupt the chamber dore, Let in the Maid, that out a Maid, neuer departed more

King. Pretty Ophelia

Ophe. Indeed la? without an oath Ile make an end ont. By gis, and by S. Charity, Alacke, and fie for shame: Yong men wil doo't, if they come too't, By Cocke they are too blame. Quoth she before you tumbled me, You promis'd me to Wed: So would I ha done by yonder Sunne, And thou hadst not come to my bed

King. How long hath she bin thus? Ophe. I hope all will be well. We must bee patient, but I cannot choose but weepe, to thinke they should lay him i'th' cold ground: My brother shall knowe of it, and so I thanke you for your good counsell. Come, my Coach: Goodnight Ladies: Goodnight sweet Ladies: Goodnight, goodnight. Enter.

King. Follow her close, Giue her good watch I pray you: Oh this is the poyson of deepe greefe, it springs All from her Fathers death. Oh Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrowes comes, they come not single spies, But in Battalians. First, her Father slaine, Next your Sonne gone, and he most violent Author Of his owne iust remoue: the people muddied, Thicke and vnwholsome in their thoughts, and whispers For good Polonius death; and we haue done but greenly In hugger mugger to interre him. Poore Ophelia Diuided from her selfe, and her faire Iudgement, Without the which we are Pictures, or meere Beasts. Last, and as much containing as all these, Her Brother is in secret come from France, Keepes on his wonder, keepes himselfe in clouds, And wants not Buzzers to infect his eare With pestilent Speeches of his Fathers death, Where in necessitie of matter Beggard, Will nothing sticke our persons to Arraigne In eare and eare. O my deere Gertrude, this, Like to a murdering Peece in many places, Giues me superfluous death.

A Noise within.

Enter a Messenger.

Qu. Alacke, what noyse is this? King. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the doore. What is the matter? Mes. Saue your selfe, my Lord. The Ocean (ouer-peering of his List) Eates not the Flats with more impittious haste Then young Laertes, in a Riotous head, Ore-beares your Officers, the rabble call him Lord, And as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, Custome not knowne, The Ratifiers and props of euery word, They cry choose we? Laertes shall be King, Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds, Laertes shall be King, Laertes King

Qu. How cheerefully on the false Traile they cry, Oh this is Counter you false Danish Dogges.

Noise within. Enter Laertes.

King. The doores are broke

Laer. Where is the King, sirs? Stand you all without

All. No, let's come in

Laer. I pray you giue me leaue