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Of these dilated articles allow 9.
[E.reunt Voltimand and Cornelius. And now, Laertes, what's the news with you? You told us of some suit; What is't, Laertes ? You cannot speak of reason to the Dane, And lose your voice: What would'st thou beg, Laertes, That shall not be my offer, not thy asking ? The head is not more native to the heart, The hand more instrumental to the mouth, Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father. What would'st thou have, Laertes ? Laer.
My dread lord,
King. Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine, And thy best graces : spend it at thy will. But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son, Hum. A little more than kin, and less than kind.
[Aside. King. How is it that the clouds still hang on you? Ham. Not so, my lord, I am too much i'the sun 'o.
Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off,
Ham. Ay, inadam, it is common.
If it be,
seems. 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc'd 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. King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature,
To give these mourning duties to your father :
Queen. Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet; I pray thee, stay with us, go not to Wittenberg.
Ham. I shall in all my best obey you, madam.
King. Why; 'tis a loving and a fair reply; Be as ourself in Denmark.-Madam, come; This gentle and unforc'd accord of Hamlet Sits smiling to my heart : in grace whereof, 12 No jocund health, that Denmark drinks to-day, But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell; And the king's rouse the heaven shall bruit again, Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away. [E.reunt King, Queen, Lords, 8c. Polonius and
Laertes. Ham. O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd 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!-
I am glad to see you well:
ever. Ham. Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name
And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?
Mar. My good lord,
Ham. I am very glad to see you; good even, sir. But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?
Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord.