That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust, Now, what my love is, proof hath made you know; Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great grow great, great love grows there. P. King. 'Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too; My operant powers their functions leave to do: P. Queen. O, confound the rest! Such love must needs be treason in my breast: In second husband let me be accurst! None wed the second, but who kill'd the first. P. Queen. The instances, that second marriage move, Are base respects of thrift, but none of love; When second husband kisses me in bed. P. King. I do believe, you think what now you speak; But, what we do determine, oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory; Of violent birth, but poor validity: Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree; But fall, unshaken, when they mellow be. Most necessary 'tis, that we forget Το pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt: Their own enactures with themselves destroy: change; For 'tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love. For who not needs, shall never lack a friend; But, orderly to end where I begun,— Sport and repose lock from me, day, and night! An anchor's cheer in prison be my scope! Both here, and hence, pursue me lasting strife, Ham. If she should break it now, [To Ophelia. P. King. Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here a-while; My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile The tedious day with sleep. P. Queen. [Sleeps. Sleep rock thy brain; [Exit. And never come mischance between us twain! Ham. Madam, how like you this play? Queen. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. Ham. O, but she'll keep her word. King. Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in't? Ham. No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i'the world. King. What do you call the play? Ham. The mouse-trap. Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna: Gonzago is the duke's name; his wife, Baptista: you shall see anon; 'tis a knavish piece of work: But what of that? your majesty, and we that have free souls, it touches us not: Let the gall'd jade wince, our withers are unwrung. Enter Lucianus. This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king. Ham. I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying. Oph. You are keen, my lord, you are keen. Ham. It would cost you a groaning, to take off my edge. Oph. Still better, and worse. Ham. So you mistake your husbands.-Begin, murderer;—leave thy damnable faces, and begin. Come: -The croaking raven Doth bellow for revenge. Luc. Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing; Confederate season, else no creature seeing; [Pours the poison into the sleeper's ears. Ham. He poisons him i'the garden for his estate. His name's Gonzago: the story is extant, and written in very choice Italian: You shall see anon, how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago's wife. Oph. The king rises. Ham. What! frighted with false fire! Queen. How fares my lord? Pol. Give o'er the play. King. Give me some light:-away! Pol. Lights, lights, lights! [Exeunt all but Hamlet and Horatio. Ham. Why, let the strucken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play: For some must watch, while some must sleep; Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers, (if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me,) with two Provencial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir? Hor. Half a share. Ham. A whole one, I. For thou dost know, O Damon dear, Of Jove himself; and now reigns here A very, very-peacock. Hor. You might have rhymed. Ham. O good Horatio, I'll take the ghost's word for a thousand pound. Didst perceive? Hor. Very well, my lord. Ham. Upon the talk of the poisoning, Hor. I did very well note him. Ham. Ah, ha!-Come, some musick; come, the recorders. For if the king like not the comedy, Why then, belike,—he likes it not, perdy.— Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Come, some musick. Guil. Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you. Ham. Sir, a whole history. Guil. The king, sir, Ham. Ay, sir, what of him? Guil. Is, in his retirement, marvellous distemper'd. Ham. With drink, sir? |