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(O wicked wit, and gifts, that have the power
So to feduce!) won to his fhameful luft t
The will of my moft feeming virtuous queen.
Oh Hamlet, what a falling off was there!
But foft methinks I scent the morning air
Brief let me be Sleeping within mine orchard,*
My custom always in the afternoon,

Upon my fecure hour thy uncle ftole
With juice of curfed hebony in a phial,
And in the porches of mine ear did pour
The leperous diftilment.

Thus was I, fleeping, by a brother's hand,
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once bereft ;
Cut off ev'n in the bloffoms of my fin:
No reck'ning made! but sent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head!

HAM. Oh horrible! oh horrible! moft horrible !.
GHOST. If thou haft nature in thee, bear it not;

But how foever thou purfu'ft this act,

Taint not thy mind, nor let thy foul contrive
Against thy mother aught; leave her to Heav'n,
And to those thorns that in her bofom lodge,
To prick and fting her. Fare thee well at once!
The glow-worm fhows the matin to be near,

And 'gins to pale his ineffectual fire.

Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me.

HAM. O all you hoft of Heav'n! O earth! what else? And fhall I couple Hell? oh fie! hold heart! And you, my finews, grow not inftant old,

But bear me ftiffly up. Remember thee!

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Ay, thou poor ghost, while mem❜ry holds a feat
In this distracted globe! remember thee!
Yea, from the tablet of my memory
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All faws of books, all forms, all pressures past,

That

That youth and obfervation copied there;
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,

Unmix'd with bafer matter.

SHAKSPEARE,

CHAP. XXX.

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.

To be, or not to be that is the queftion.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to fuffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by oppofing end them?-To die--to fleep-
No more; and by a fleep, to say, we end
The heart-ach, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to ;-'Tis a confummation
Devoutly to be wifh'd. To die-to fleep-
To fleep! perchance to dream! ay, there's the rub;
For in that fleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have huffed off this mortal coil,
Muft give us paufe.-There's the respect

That makes calamity of fo long life:

For who would bear the whips and fcorns o' th' time,
Th' oppreffor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of defpis'd love, the law's delay,
The infolence of office, and the fpurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and fweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of fomething after death
(That undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns) puzzles the will;

And makes us rather bear thofe ills we have,

Than

Than By to others that we know not of?
Thus confcience does make cowards of us all:
And thus the native hue of refolution

Is ficklied o'er with the pale caft of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lofe the name of action.

SHAKSPEARE

CHAP. XXXI.

SOLILOQUY OF THE KING IN HAMLET.

OH!
my offence is rank, it fmells to Heav'n,
It hath the primal, eldest curfe upon't;
A brother's murder. -Pray I cannot :
Though inclination be as fharp as 'twill,
My ftronger guilt defeats my ftrong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I ftand in paufe where I fhall firft begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood?
Is there not rain enough in the sweet Heav'ns
To wash it white as fnow? Whereto ferves mercy,
But to confront the vifage of offence ?

And what's in prayer, but this two fold force,
To be foreftalled ere we come to fall,

Or pardon'd being down?Then I'll look up;
My fault is paft.But oh, what form of prayer
Can ferve myturn? Forgive me my foul murder!-
That cannot be, fince I am ftill poffefs'd

Of thofe effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardon'd, and retain th' offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence's gilded hand may fhove by juftice;

And

And oft 'tis feen, the wicked prize itself
Buys out the laws. But 'tis not so above.
There is no fhuffing; there the action lies
In its true nature, and we ourselves compell'd,
Ev'n to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? what rests?
Try what repentance can: what can it not?
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?
Oh wretched state! oh bofom black as death!
Oh limed foul, that, fruggling to be free,
Art more engag'd! Help, angels! make effay!
Bow, ftubborn knees; and heart, with ftrings of fteel,
Be foft as finews of the new-born babe!

All may be well.

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP. XXXII.

ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

DESCEND, ye Nine! defcend and fing:
The breathing inftruments infpire;
Wake into voice each filent ftring,
And fweep the founding lyre!
In a fadly pleafing train

Let the warbling lute complain:
Let the loud trumpet found,
'Till the roofs all around

The fhrill echoes rebound:

While in more lengthen'd notes and flow
The deep, majeftic, folemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers foft and clear

Gently steal upon the ear;

Now louder, and yet louder rife,

And fill with spreading founds the skies ;

Exulting

Exulting in triumph now fwell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild mufic floats;
Till, by degrees, remote and small,

The ftrains decay,

And melt away

In a dying, dying fall.

By Mufic, minds an equal temper know,
Not fwell too high, nor fink too low,
If in the breaft tumultuous joys arise,
Mufic. her foft, affuafive voice applies;
Or, when the foul is prefs'd with cares,
Exalts her in enlivening airs.

Warriors the fires with animated founds:
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds:
Melancholy lifts her head,
Morpheus roufes from his bed,

Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
Lift'ning Envy drops her fnakes;
Inteftine war no more our Paffions wage,
And giddy Factions hear away their rage.

But when our country's caufe provokes to arms,
How martial mufic every bofom warms!

So when the firft bold veffel dar'd the feas,
High on the ftern the Thracian rais'd his ftrain,
While Argo faw her kindred trees

Defcend from Pelion to the main,
Transported demigods ftocd round,

And men grew heroes at the found,
Inflam'd with glory's charms:
Each chief his fev'nfold fhield difplay'd,
And half unfheath'd the fhining blade:
And feas, and rocks, and skies rebound
To arms! to arms! to arms!

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