LITMIR.BIZ

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memory be green;24 and that it us befitted

      To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom

      To be contracted in one brow of woe;

      Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature,

      That we with wisest sorrow25 think on him,

      Together with remembrance of ourselves.

      Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen,

      The imperial jointress of this warlike state,

      Have we, as 'twere with a defeated joy,26

      Taken to wife: nor have we herein barr'd27

      Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone

      With this affair along:—For all, our thanks.

      And now, Laertes, what's the news with you?

      You told us of some suit; What is't, Laertes?

      Laer. (R.)

      My dread lord,

      Your leave and favour28 to return to France;

      From whence though willingly I came to Denmark,

      To show my duty in your coronation,

      Yet now, I must confess, that duty done,

      My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France,

      And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.

      King. Have you your father's leave? What says Polonious?

      Pol. (R.) He hath, my lord, (wrung from me my slow leave

      By laboursome petition; and, at last,

      Upon his will I sealed my hard consent):29

      I do beseech you, give him leave to go.

      King. Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine,

      And thy best graces spend it at thy will!30

      But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son——

      Ham. (L.) A little more than kin, and less than kind.31

      [Aside.]

      King. How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

      Ham. Not so, my lord; I am too much i'the sun.32

      Queen. (L.C.) Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour33 off,

      And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.

      Do not for ever with thy vailed lids34

      Seek for thy noble father in the dust:

      Thou know'st 'tis common, all that live must die,

      Passing through nature to eternity.

      Ham. Ay, madam, it is common.

      Queen.

      If it be,

      Why seems it so particular with thee?

      Ham. Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems.

      'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,

      Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,

      No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,

      Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,

      That can denote me truly: These, indeed, seem,

      For they are actions that a man might play.

      But I have that within which passeth show;35

      These but the trappings36 and the suits of woe.

      King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,

      To give these mourning duties to your father:

      But, you must know, your father lost a father;

      That father lost, lost his;37 and the survivor bound,

      In filial obligation, for some term

      To do obsequious sorrow:38 But to perséver39

      In obstinate condolement,40 is a course

      Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief:

      It shows a will most incorrect to Heaven.41

      We pray you, throw to earth

      This unprevailing42 woe; and think of us

      As of a father: for let the world take note,

      You are the most immediate to our throne;

      Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.

      Queen. Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet:

      I pray thee, stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.

      Ham. I shall in all my best obey you, madam.

      King. Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply;

      Be as ourself in Denmark.—Madam, come;

      This gentle and unforc'd accord of Hamlet

      Sits smiling to my heart:43 in grace whereof,44

      No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day,45

      But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell;

      Re-speaking earthly thunder.

      [Trumpet March repeated. Exeunt King and Queen, preceded by Polonius, Lords, Ladies, Laertes, and Attendants, R.H.]

      Ham. O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt,

      Thaw, and resolve itself46 into a dew!

      Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd

      His canon47 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God!

      How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable

      Seem to me all the uses of this world!48

      Fye on't! O fye! 'tis an unweeded garden,

      That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature

      Possess it merely.49 That it should come to this!

      But two months dead!—nay, not so much, not two:

      So excellent a king; that was, to this,

      Hyperion to a satyr:50 so loving to my mother,

      That he might not beteem51 the winds of heaven

      Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!

      Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,

      As if increase of appetite had grown

      By

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