SCENE V. ELSINORE. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE. Queen. Enter Queen and Horatio. I will not speak with her. Hor. She is importunate; indeed, distract; Her mood will needs be pitied. Queen. What would she have? Hor. She speaks much of her father; says, she hears, There's tricks i'the world; and hems, and beats her heart; Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt, That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts; Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think, there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. Queen. 'Twere good, she were spoken with; for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds: Let her come in. [Exit Horatio. Το my sick soul, as sin's true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss: So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself, in fearing to be spilt. Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song? Oph. Say you? nay, pray you, mark. Oph. Larded all with sweet flowers; With true-love showers. King. How do you, pretty lady? go, Oph. Well, God'ield you! They say, 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, let us have no words of this; but when they ask you, what it means, say you this: Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's day, Then up he rose, and don'd his clothes, Let in the maid, that out a maid King. Pretty Ophelia! Oph. Indeed, without an oath, I'll make an end on't: By Gis, and by Saint Charity, Alack, and fye for shame! Young men will do't, if they come to’t; By cock, they are to blame. Quoth she, before you tumbled me, You promis'd me to wed: [He answers.] So would I ha' done, by yonder sun, King. How long hath she been thus? Oph. I hope, all will be well. We must be patient: but I cannot choose but weep, to think, they should lay him i'the cold ground: My brother shall know of it, and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies: good night, good night. pray you. [Exit. King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I [Exit Horatio. O! this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father's death: And now behold, O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions! First, her father slain; Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Of his own just remove: The people muddied, Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts, and whispers, For good Polonius' death; and we have done but greenly, In hugger-mugger to inter him: Poor Ophelia Gent. Save yourself, my lord;. The ocean, overpeering of his list, Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste, O'erbears your officers! The rabble call him, lord; And, as the world were now but to begin, The ratifiers and props of every word, Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds, Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs. King. The doors are broke. [Noise within. Enter Laertes, arm'd; Danes following. Laer. Where is this king?-Sirs, stand you all Laer. I thank you:-keep the door.-O thou vile king, |