Indeed would make one think there would be Thoughts Queen. 'Twere good the were spoken with, for fhe may Dangerous Conjectures in ill-breeding Minds. Let her come in. To my fick Soul, as Sin's true Nature is, It fpills it felf in fearing to be fpilt. Enter Ophelia distracted. Oph. Where is the beauteous Majefty of Denmark? [ftrow Oph. How Should I your true Love know, from another one? He is dead and gone, Lady, he is dead and gone, Queen. Nay, but Ophelia. Oph. Pray you mark. White his Shrowd as the Mountain-Snow. Queen. Alas, look here, my Lord. Oph. Larded with fweet Flowers: Which bewept to the Grave did not go, With True-love showers. King. How do ye, pretty Lady? Oph. Well, God dil'd you. They fay 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 us have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, fay you this: To morrow is St. Valentine's Day, all in the morn betime, Then up he rofe, and don'd his Cloths, and dupt the Chamber-door; King. Pretty Ophelia! Oph. Indeed la? without an Oath, I'll make an end on't. By Gis, and by S. Charity; Alack, an fie for shame, Young Young Men will do't, if they come tot, So would I ha' done, by yonder Sun, my Bed. King. How long hath the been thus? Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be patient; but I cannot chufe but weep, to think they fhould lay him i'th' cold Ground; my Brother shall know of it, and fo I thank you for your good Counfel. Come, my Coach; goodnight, Ladies; goodnight, fweet Ladies; goodnight, goodnight. [Exit. Next your Son gone, and he most violent Author Enter a Meffenger. Queen. Alack, what Noife is this? [A Noife within. King, Where are my Switzers? Let them uard the Door. What is the matter? Mef. Save your felf, my Lord, The Ocean, over peering of his Lift, Eats Eats not the Flats with more impetuous hafte, O'er-bears your Officers; the Rabble call him Lord, Queen. How chearfully on the falfe Trail they cry, Oh this is Counter, you falfe Danish Dogs. [Noife within. Enter Laertes. King. The Doors are broke. Laer. Where is the King? Sirs! Stand you all without. All. No, let's come in. Laer. I pray you give me leave. All. We will, we will. 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 calms, proclaims me Baftard: Crys Cuckold to my Father, brands the Harlot King. What is the Caufe, Laertes, That thy Rebellion looks fo Giant-like? Why art thou thus incenft? Let him go, Gertrude. Laer. Where's my Father? Queen. But not by him. King. Let him demand his fill. Laer. How came he dead? I'll not be juggl'd with That That both the Worlds I give to negligence, King. Who hall stay you? Laer. My Will, not all the World. And for my means, I'll husband them fo well, If King. Good Laertes: you defire to know the certainty Of your dear Father's death, if 'tis not writ in your Revenge, That Soop-ftake you will draw both Friend and Foe, Winner and Lofer. Laer. None but his Enemies. King. Will you know them then? Laer. To his good Friends thus wide I'll ope my Arms; And like the kind life-rendring Pelican, Repaft them with my Blood. King. Why now you speak Like a good Child, and a true Gentleman. [A Noife within. Let her come in; Enter Ophelia, fantastically dreft with Straws and Flowers: O heat dry up my Brains, tears feven times fält, O Heav'ns, is't poffible, a young Maid's wits, Oph. They bore him bare-fac`d on the Beer: And on his Grave rains many a Tears Laer. Hadft thou thy wits, and didft perfwade Revenge, It could not move thus. Oph. You must fing down a-down, and you call him a down-a. O how the Wheels become it? It is thefalle Steward that ftole his Mafter's Daughter. Laer. This nothing's more than matter. Oph. There's Rosemary, that's for remembrance; Pray Love remember; and there's Pancies, that's for Thoughts. Laer. A document in madnefs, thoughts and remembrance fitted. Oph. There's Fennel for you, and Columbines; there's Rue for you, and here's fome for me. We may call it Herb-Grace a Sundays: O you must wear your Rue with a difference. There's a Dafie, I would give you fome Vio lets, but they withered all when my Father dyed: They fay, he made a good end; For bonny Sweet Robin is all my joy. Laer. Thought, and Affliction, Paffion, Hell it felf, She turns to favour, and to prettiness. Oph. And will be not come again? And will be not come again? No, no, he is dead, go to thy Death-bed, His Beard as white as Snow, All Flaxen was his Pole: He is gone, he is gone, and we caft away mone, Gramercy on his Soul. And of all Chriftian Souls, I pray God. God b'w'ye. Laer. Do you fee this, you Gods? [Exit Ophelia. King. Laertes, I must commune with your Grief, Or you deny me right: Go but a-part, Make choice of whom your wifeft Friends you will, They find us touch'd, we will our Kingdom give, Be you content to lend your Patience to us, Bb And |