And you, my finews, grow not inftant old,
But bear me ftiffly up! Remember thee?
Ay, thou poor Ghoft, while memory holds a feat
In this diftracted globe. Remember thee?
Yea, from the table of my memory
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All faws of books, all forms, all preffures paft,
That youth and obfervation copied there;
And thy commandment all alone fhall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmix'd with bafer matter: yes, by Heaven.
O moft pernicious woman!

Ham. O, my prophetic foul! my uncle?
Ghof. Ay, that inceftuous, that adulterate beaft,
With witchcraft of his wit, with trait'rous gifts,O villain, villain, finiling, damned villain!
(O wicked wits and gifts, that have the pow'r
So to feduce!) won to his fhameful luft
The will of my moft fecming-virtuous queen:
O Hamlet, what a falling off was there!
From me, whofe love was of that dignity,
That it went hand in hand even with the vow
I made to her in marriage; and to decline
Upon a wretch, whofe natural gifts were poor
To thofe of mine!

My tables-meet it is 1 fet it down,
That one may fmile, and fmile, and be a villain;
At least I am fure it may be to in Denmark.

But virtue, as it never will be mov'd,

Tho' lewdnefs court it in a fhape of Heaven;
So luft, tho' to a radiant angel link'd,
Will fate itfelf in a celeftial bed,
And prey on garbage.

But, foft! methinks, I fcent the morning air;

:

Brief let me be fleeping within mino orchard,
My cuftom always of the afternoon,
Upon my fecure hour thy uncle ftole,
With juice of curfed hebenon in a vial,
And in the porches of mine cars did pour
The leperous diftilment; whole effect
Holds fuch an enmity with blood of man,
That, fwift as quickfilver, it courfes through
The natural gates and alleys of the body;
And, with a fudden vigour, it doth poffet
And curd, like eager droppings into milk,
The thin and wholefome blood: fo did it mine;
And a moft inftant tetter bark'd about,
Moft lazar-like, with vile and loathfome cruft,
All my fmooth body.

Thus was I, fleeping, by a brother's hand,
Of life, of crown, of queen at once difpatch'd:
Cut off even in the bloffoms of my fin,
Unhoufel'd, difappointed, unanel'd;
No reckoning made, but fent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head:
O horrible! O horrible! moft horrible!
If thou haft nature in thee, bear it not;
Let not the royal bed of Denmark be
A couch for luxury and damned incest.
But howfoever thou purfueft this act,
Taint not thy mind, nor let thy foul contrive
Against thy mother aught; leave her to Heaven,
And to thofe thorns that in her bofom lodge,
To prick and fting her. Fare thee well at once!
The glow-worm thews the matin to be near,
And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire:
Adieu, adieu, adicu! remember me.

[Exit.

[Writing So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word; It is, Adieu, adieu! Remember me.

Ophelia's Defeription of Hamlet's mad Addrefs.
to ber.

My lord, as I was fewing in my clofet,
-Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac'd;
No hat upon his head; his stockings foul'd,
Ungarter'd, and down-gyved to his ankle;
Pale as his fhirt; his knees knocking each other,
And with a look fo piteous in purport,

As if he had been loofed out of hell,

To fpeak of horrors he comes before me.
Pol. Mad for thy love?

Oph. My lord, I do not know;

But, truly, I do fear it.

Pol. What faid he?

Oph. He took me by the wrift, and held me hard;
Then goes he to the length of all his arm;

And with his other hand thus o'er his brow
He falls to fuch perufal of my face,
As he would draw it. Long ftaid he so;
At laft-a little fhaking of mine arm,
And thrice his head thus waving up and down-
He rais'd a figh fo piteous and profound,
As it did feem to fhatter all his bulk,
And end his being: That done, he lets me go;
And, with his head over his fhoulder turn'd,
He feem'd to find his way without his eyes;
For out of doors he went without their helps,
And, to the last, bended their light on me.

'Tis too much prov'd-that, with devotion's vi- To feed, and clothe thee? Why thould the poor be

No, let the candied tongue lick abfurd pomp;
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,
Where thrift may follow fawning. Doft thou hear?
Since my dear foul was miftrets of her choice,
And could of men diftinguifh her election,
She hath feal'd thee for herfelf: for thou haft been
As one, in fuffering all, that fuffers nothing;
A man, that fortune's buffets and rewards
Haft ta'en with equal thanks: and bleft are thofe,
Whole blood and judgment are fo well comingled,
That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger,
To found what ftop the pleafe: Give me the man
That is not paffion's flave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core-ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.

Contagion to this world: Now could I drink hot
blood,

And do fuch bufinefs as the bitter day
Would quake to look on. Soft; now to my mo-
O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever [ther.
The foul of Nero enter this firm bofom:
Let me be cruel, not unnatural:

I will fpeak daggers to her, but use nonc.
The King's defpairing Soliloquy, and Hamlet's
Reflections on him.

O, my offence is rank, it fmells to Heaven;
It hath the primal, eldest curfe upon't,
A brother's murder! Pray can I not,
Tho' inclination be as fharp as will;
My ftronger guilt defeats my ftrong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I ftand in paufe where I fhall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this curfed hand
Were thicker than itfelf with brother's blood?
Is there not rain enough in the fweet heavens
To wafh it white as fnow? Whereto ferves mercy,
But to confront the vifage of offence?
And what's in prayer, but this twofold force-
To be foreftalled, ere we come to fall,
Or pardon'd, being down? Then I'll look up;
My fault is paft. But, O, what form of
prayer
Can ferve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder!
That cannot be ; fince I am till poffefs'd
Of those 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 oft 'tis feen, the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law: but 'tis not fo above:
There is no fhuffling, there the action lies
In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'd
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults
To give in evidence. What then? what refts?
Try what repentance can: what can it not?
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?
O wretched ftate! O bofom, black as death!
O limed foul! that, ftruggling to be free,
Art more engag'd! Help, angels, make affay!
Bow, ftubborn kneos! and, heart, with ftrings of
Steck,

Ham. Now might I do it, pat, now he is praying,
And now I'll do't;-and fo he goes to heaven:
And fo am I reveng'd--that would be fcann'd:-
A villain kills my father; and, for that,
I, his fole fon, do this fame villain fend
To heaven!

Why this is hire and falary, not revenge.
He took my father grofsly, full of bread;
With all his crimes broad blown, as fluth as May;
And, how his audit ftands, who knows, fave
Heaven?

But in our circumftance and courfe of thought,
'Tis heavy with him :-and am I then reveng'd,
To take him in the purging of his foul,
When he is fit and feafon'd for his paffage?

No.

Up, fword; and know thou a more horrid hent,
When he is drunk, afleep, or in his rage;
Or in the incestuous pleatures of his bed;
At gaming, wearing; or about fome act
That has no relih of falvation in't:
Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven;
And that his foul may be as damn'd, and black,
As hell whereto it goes.

Hamlet and bis Mother.
Queen. What have I done, that thou dar'st wag
In noife fo rude again't me?
[thy tongue

Ham. Such an act,

That blurs the grace and blush of modesty ;
Calls virtue hypocrite; takes off the rofe
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And fets a blifter there; makes marriage-vows
As falfe as dicers' caths: O, fuch a deed,
As from the body of contraction plucks
The very foul! and fweet religion makes
A rhaptody of words.

Queen. Ah me, what act?

Ham. Look here, upon this picture, and on this;
The counterfeit prefentment of two brothers.
See what a grace was feated on this brow:
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An
cye like Mars, to threaten or command;
A ftation like the herald Mercury,
New-lighted on a heaven-kifling hill,
A combination, and a form, indeed,
Where ev'ry god did feem to fet his feal,
To give the world affurance of a man: [lows:
This was your husband. Look you now, what fol-
Here is your husband; like a mildew'd ear,
Blafting his wholefome brother. Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor?

Queen. O Hamlet, fpeak no more:
Thou turn'ft mine eyes into my very foul;
And there I fee fuch black and grained frots,
As will not leave their tinct.

Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our perfon;
There's fuch divinity doth hedge a king,
That treafon can but peep to what it would,
Act little of his will.

Defcription of Ophelia's Drowning.
There is a willow grows afcaunt the brook,
That fhews his hoar leaves in the glaffy ftream;
Therewith fantastic garlands did the make,
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daifies, and long purples,
That liberal fhepherds give a groffer name,
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them:
There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious fliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies, and herself,
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes fpread wide,
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time, the chaunted fnatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,

Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element; but long it could not be,
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.

Afpotless Virgin buried.

Lay her i' the earth;
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets fpring! I tell thee, churlish priest,
A minift'ring angel shall my sister be,
When thou lieft howling.

Melancholy.

This is mere madness:

And thus awhile the fit will work on him;
Anon, as patient as the female dove,
When first her golden couplets are disclos'd,
His filence will fit drooping.

Providence directs our Actions.

And that should teach us, There's a divinity that fhapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.

A Health.

Give me the cups;

And let the kettle to the trumpet speak,
The trumpet to the cannoneer without,
The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to earth;
"Now the King drinks to Hamlet."

No more the thirsty entrance of this foil
Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood;
No more fhall trenching war channel her fields;
Nor bruife her flowrets with the armed hoofs
Of hoftile paces: Thofe opposed eyes,
Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
All of one nature, of one fubftance bred-
Did lately meet in the inteftine fhock
And furious clofe of civil butchery,
Shall now, in mutual, well-befeeining ranks,
March all one way; and be no more oppos'd
Againft acquaintance, kindred, and allies:
The edge of war, like an ill-fheathed knife,
No more fhall cut his mafter.

King Henry's Character of Percy, and of his Son
Prince Henry.

Yea, there thou mak' me fad, and mak'ft me fin
In envy that my lord Northumberland

Should be the father of fo bleft a fon:
A fon, who is the theme of honour's tongue;
Amongst a grove, the very straighteft plant;
Who is fweet fortune's minion, and her pride:
See riot and difhonour ftain the brow
Whilft I, by looking on the praise of him,
Of my young Harry.

Prince Henry's Soliloquy.

I know you all, and will awhile uphold
The unyok'd humour of your idlenets:
Yet herein will I imitate the fun,
Who doth permit the bafe contagious clouds
To finother up his beauty from the world,
That, when he pleafe again to be himself,
Being wanted, he inay more be wonder'd at,
By breaking through the foul and ugly mifts
Of vapours, that did feem to ftrangle him.
If all the year were playing holidays,
To port would be as tedious as to work;
But, when they feldom come, they wish'd-for come,
And nothing pleafcth but rare accidents.
So, when this loofe behaviour I throw off,
And pay the debt I never promifed;
By how much better than my word I am,
By fo much fhall I falfify men's hopes;
And, like bright metal on a fullen ground,
My reformation, glitt'ring o'er my fault,
Shall fhew more goodly, and attract more eyes,
Than that which hath no foil to fet it off.
I'll fo offend, to make offence a skill;
Redeeming time, when men think least I will.

Hotfpur's Defcription of a finical Courtier.
But, I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil,
Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly drefs'd:
Breathlefs and faint, leaning upon my fword,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new-rcap'd,
Shew'd like a ftubble-land at harvest home:

§ 19. THE FIRST PART OF HENRY IV. He was perfumed like a milliner;

S

SHAKSPEARE.

Peace after Civil War.

fhaken as we are, fo wan with care,
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,
And breathe fhort-winded accents of new broils
To be cominenc'd in fronds afar remote.

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
He gave his nofe, and took 't away again ;-
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in fnuff:-And ftill he fmil'd, and talk'd;
And, as the foldiers bare dead bodies by,
He call'd them-untaught knaves, unmannerly,

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