Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Gui. Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Arv. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Gui. Fear not slander, censure* rash;
Arv. Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
Both. All lovers young, all lovers must
Consignt to thee, and come to dust.
Gui. No exorcisor harm thee!
Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Gui. Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Arv. Nothing ill come near thee!
Both. Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave.
Thou divine nature, how thyself thou blazon'st
In these two princely boys! They are as gentle
As zephyrs, blowing below the violet,
Not wagging his sweet head: and yet as rough,
Their royal blood enchafed, as the rudest wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to the vale. "Tis wonderful,
That an invisible instinct should frame them,
To royalty unlearn'd; honour untaught;
Civility not seen from other; valour,
That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop
As if it had been sow'd.
No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost,
But that the heavens fought: the king himself
Of his wings destitute, the army broken,
And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying
Through a straight lane; the enemy full-hearted,
Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work
More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down
Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling,
Merely through fear; that the strait pass was damm'd
With dead men, hurt behind, and cowards living
To die with lengthen'd shame.
I, in mine own woe charm'd,
Could not find death where I did hear him groan;
Nor feel him where he struck: being an ugly monster,
"Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,
Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we
That draw his knives i' the war.
Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven;
Which is the way?
I thank you. By yon bush ?-Pray, how far thither ? 'Ods pettikins! *- —can it be six miles yet?
I have gone all night :-'faith, I'll lie down and sleep. But, soft! no bedfellow :-O, gods and goddesses!
These flowers are like the pleasures of the world;
This bloody man the care on't.—I hope, I dream;
For, so, I thought I was a cave-keeper,
And cook to honest creatures: but 'tis not so;
"Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing,
Which the brain makes of fumes: our very eyes
Are sometimes like our judgments, blind: good faith,
I tremble still with fear, but if there be
Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity
As a wren's eye, fear'd gods, a part of it!
The dream's here still: even when I wake, it is
Without me, as within me; not imagined, felt.
But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill.
Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems. 'Tis not alone, my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black,
*This diminutive adjuration is derived from God's my pity.
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly: these, indeed, seem,
For they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within, which passeth show;
These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.
HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS MOTHER'S MARRIAGE..
O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve* itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fixed
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank, and gross in nature,
Possess it merely.† That it should come to this!
But two months dead!-nay, not so much, not two.
So excellent a king; that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother,
That he might not beteem § the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on: and yet, within a month,—
Let me not think on't; Frailty, thy name is woman!
A little month; or ere those shoes were old,
With which she follow'd my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears;-why she, even she,-
O heaven! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourn'd longer,-married with my uncle,
My father's brother; but no more like my father,
Than I to Hercules: within a month;
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,
She married:-O most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not, nor it cannot come to, good.
THE EXTENT OF HUMAN PERFECTION.
He was a man, take him for all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again.
HAMLET, ON THE APPEARANCE OF HIS FATHER'S GHOST.
Angels and ministers of grace, defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd ;
Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,
Thou comest in such a questionable* shape,
That I will speak to thee; I'll call thee, Hamlet,
King, father, royal Dane: O, answer me:
Let me not burst in ignorance! but tell,
Why thy canonised bones, hearsed in death,
Have burst their cerements! why the sepulchre,
Wherein we saw thee quietly in-urn'd,
Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws,
To cast thee up again! What may this mean,
That thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel
Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon,
Making night hideous; and we fools of nature,
So horridly to shake our disposition†
With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?
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