LITMIR.BIZ

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fears grow great, great love grows there.

       P. King.

       Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too;

       My operant powers their functions leave to do:

       And thou shalt live in this fair world behind,

       Honour’d, belov’d, and haply one as kind

       For husband shalt thou,—

       P. Queen.

       O, confound the rest!

       Such love must needs be treason in my breast:

       In second husband let me be accurst!

       None wed the second but who kill’d the first.

       Ham.

       [Aside.] Wormwood, wormwood!

       P. Queen.

       The instances that second marriage move

       Are base respects of thrift, but none of love.

       A second time I kill my husband dead

       When second husband kisses me in bed.

       P. King.

       I do believe you think what now you speak;

       But what we do determine oft we break.

       Purpose is but the slave to memory;

       Of violent birth, but poor validity:

       Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree;

       But fall unshaken when they mellow be.

       Most necessary ‘tis that we forget

       To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt:

       What to ourselves in passion we propose,

       The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.

       The violence of either grief or joy

       Their own enactures with themselves destroy:

       Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament;

       Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.

       This world is not for aye; nor ‘tis not strange

       That even our loves should with our fortunes change;

       For ‘tis a question left us yet to prove,

       Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.

       The great man down, you mark his favourite flies,

       The poor advanc’d makes friends of enemies;

       And hitherto doth love on fortune tend:

       For who not needs shall never lack a friend;

       And who in want a hollow friend doth try,

       Directly seasons him his enemy.

       But, orderly to end where I begun,—

       Our wills and fates do so contrary run

       That our devices still are overthrown;

       Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own:

       So think thou wilt no second husband wed;

       But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.

       P. Queen.

       Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light!

       Sport and repose lock from me day and night!

       To desperation turn my trust and hope!

       An anchor’s cheer in prison be my scope!

       Each opposite that blanks the face of joy

       Meet what I would have well, and it destroy!

       Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife,

       If, once a widow, ever I be wife!

       Ham.

       If she should break it now! [To Ophelia.]

       P. King.

       ‘Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile;

       My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile

       The tedious day with sleep.

       [Sleeps.]

       P. Queen.

       Sleep rock thy brain,

       And never come mischance between us twain!

       [Exit.]

       Ham.

       Madam, how like you this play?

       Queen.

       The lady protests too much, methinks.

       Ham.

       O, but she’ll keep her word.

       King.

       Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in’t?

       Ham. No, no! They do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i’ the world.

       King.

       What do you call the play?

       Ham. The Mouse-trap. Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna: Gonzago is the duke’s name; his wife, Baptista: you shall see anon; ‘tis a knavish piece of work: but what o’ that? your majesty, and we that have free souls, it touches us not: let the gall’d jade wince; our withers are unwrung.

       [Enter Lucianus.]

       This is one Lucianus, nephew to the King.

       Oph.

       You are a good chorus, my lord.

       Ham. I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying.

       Oph.

       You are keen, my lord, you are keen.

       Ham.

       It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge.

       Oph.

       Still better, and worse.

       Ham. So you must take your husbands.—Begin, murderer; pox, leave thy damnable faces, and begin. Come:—‘The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.’

       Luc.

       Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing;

       Confederate season, else no creature seeing;

       Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected,

       With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected,

       Thy natural magic and dire property

       On wholesome life usurp immediately.

       [Pours the poison into the sleeper’s ears.]

       Ham.

       He poisons him i’ the garden for’s estate. His name’s Gonzago:

       The story is extant, and written in very choice Italian; you

       shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife.

       Oph.

       The King rises.

       Ham.

       What, frighted with false fire!

       Queen.

       How fares my lord?

       Pol.

       Give o’er the play.

       King.

       Give me some light:—away!

       All.

       Lights, lights, lights!

       [Exeunt all but Hamlet and Horatio.]

       Ham.

       Why, let the strucken deer go weep,

       The hart ungalled play;

       For some must watch, while some must sleep:

       So runs the world away.—

       Would not this,

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