HAMLET, Prince of DENMARK. (1) АСТ I. SCENE, A Platform before the Palace. W Enter Bernardo and Francifco, two Centinels. Ber. He. BERNARDO. HO's there? Fran. Nay, anfwer me: ftand, and unfold your self. Ber. Long live the King! Fran. Bernardo ? Fran. You come moft carefully upon your hour. Р Fran. (1) Honeft Langbaine (in his account of Dramatic Poets) having told us, that he knew not whether this Story were true or falfe, not finding in the Lift given by Doctor Heylin such a King of Denmark as Claudius; Mr. Pope comes and tells us, that this Story was not invented by our Author, tho, from whence he took it, he knows not. Langbaine gives us Fran. For this relief, much thanks: 'tis bitter cold, And I am fick at heart. Ber. Have you had quiet Guard? Ber. Well, good night. If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, The rivals of my Watch, bid them make hafte. Enter Horatio and Marcellus. Fran. I think, I hear them. Stand, ho! who is there? Har. Friends to this ground. Mar. And liege-men to the Dane. Fran. Give you good night. Mar. Oh, farewel, honeft foldier; who hath reliev'd you? Fran. Bernardo has my place: give you good night. [Exit Francifco. us a fenfible Reason for his Ignorance in this Point; what to make of Mr. Pope's Affertion upon the Grounds he gives us for it, I confefs, I know not. But we'll allow this Gentleman, for once, a Prophet in his Declaration for the Story is taken from Saxo Grammaticus in his Danif Hiftory. I fubjoin a fhort Extract of the material Circumstances, on which the Groundwork of the Plot is built: and how happily the Poet has adapted his Incidents, I fhall leave to the Obfervation of every Reader. The Hiftorian calls our Poet's Hero, Amlethus; his Father, Horwendillus; his Uncle, Fengo; and his, Mother, Gerutha. The Old King in fingle Combat flew Collerus, King of Norway; Fengo makes away with his Brother Horwendillus, and marries his Widow Gerutha. Amlethus, to avoid being fufpected by his Uncle of Defigns, affumes a Form of utter Madness. A fine Woman is planted upon him, to try if he would yield to the Impreffions of Love. Fengo contrives, that Amlethus, in order to found him, fhould be closeted by his Mother. A Man is conceal'd in the Rufhes to overhear their Difcourfe; whom Amlethus discovers and kills. When the Queen is frighted at this Behaviour of his, he tasks her about her criminal Courfe of Life, and incestuous Converfation with her former Husband's Murtherer: confeffes, his Madness is but counterfeited, to preferve himself and fecure his Revenge for his Father; to which he injoyns the Queen's Silence. Fengo fends Amlethus to Britaine: Two of the King's Servants attend him, with Letters to the British King, ftrictly prefling the Death of Amlethus, who, in the Night-time, coming at their Commiffion, o'er-reads it, forms a new one, and turns the Destruction, defign'd towards himself, on the Bearers of the Letters. Amlethus, returning home, by a Wile furprizes and kills his Uncle. Mar. Mar. Holla! Bernardo, Ber. Say, what, is Horatio there? Ber. Welcome, Horatio; welcome, good Marcellus. Mar. Horatio fays, 'tis but our phantafie; With us, to watch the minutes of this night; And let us once again affail your ears, And let us hear Bernardo speak of this. When yon fame Star, that's weftward from the Pole, The bell then beating one, Mar. Peace, break thee off; Enter the Ghost. Look, where it comes again. Ber. In the fame figure, like the King that's dead. Mar. Speak to it, Horatio. Hor. What art thou, that usurp'ft this time of night, Together with that fair and warlike form, In which the Majefty of buried Denmark Did fometime march? by Heav'n, I charge thee, fpeak. Mar. It is offended. Ber. See it ftalks away. Hor. Stay; fpeak; I charge thee, fpeak. [Ex. Ghoft. Ber. How now, Horatio? you tremble and look pale. Is not this fomething more than phantafie? What think you of it? Hor. Before my God, I might not this believe, Without the fenfible and true avouch Of mine own eyes. Mar. Is it not like the King? Such was the very armour he had on, 'Tis ftrange Mar. Thus twice before, and juft at this dead hour, With martial stalk, he hath gone by our Watch. Hor. In what particular thought to work, I know not: But, in the grofs and fcope of my opinion, This bodes fome strange eruption to our State. Mar. Good now fit down, and tell me, he that knows, Why this fame ftrict and most observant Watch So nightly toils the Subjects of the Land? And why fuch daily caft of brazen Cannon, And foreign mart for implements of war? Why fuch imprefs of fhipwrights, whofe fore task Does not divide the Sunday from the week? What might be toward, that this sweaty hafte Doth make the night joint labourer with the day: Who is't, that can inform me? Hor. That can I; At leaft, the whifper goes fo. Our laft King, Did Did forfeit (with his life) all thofe his Lands, Had he been vanquisher; as by that cov❜nant, The Graves stood tenantless; the fheeted Dead P 3 Have (2) And Prologue to the Omen coming on.] But Prologue and Omen are merely fynonomous here, and muft fignify one and the fame Thing. But the Poet means, that thefe ftrange Phanomena are Prologues, ard Fore |