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Will sate* itself in a celestial bed, And prey on garbage. But, soft! methinks, I scent the morning air; Brief let me be:-Sleeping within mine orchard, My custom always of the afternoon, Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole, With juice of cursed hebenons in a vial, And in the porches of mine ears did pour The leperous distilment: whose effect Holds such an enmity with blood of man, That swift as quicksilver, it courses through The natural gates and alleys of the body; And, with a sudden vigour, it doth posset. And curd, like eager droppings into milk, The thin and wholesome blood: so did it mine; And a most instant terttei bark'd about, Most lazar-slike, vile and loathsome crust, All my smooth body. Thus was 1, sleeping, by a brother's hand, of life, of crown, of queen, at once despatch’d:ll Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, Unhousel'd, T disappointed,** unaneld;tt No reckoning made but sent to my account With all my imperfections on my head: 0, horrible! 0, horrible! most horrible! If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not: Let not the royal bed of Denmark be A couch for luxury and damned incest. But, howsoever thou pursu'st this act, Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, And to those thorns that in her bossom lodge, To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once: The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire: Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me. [Exit. * Satiate.

+ Henbane. # Scab, scurf. § Leprous

|| Bereft. Without having received the Sacrament ** Unappointed, unprepared. + Without extreme unction.

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Ham. O all you host of heaven! O earth! What

else? And shall I couple hell?-0 'fie!-Hold, hold, my

heart; And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, But bear me stiffly up!-Remember thee? Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat In this distracted globe.* Remember thee? Yea, from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records, All sawst of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there; And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmix'd with baser matter: yes, by heaven, O most pernicious woman! O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! My tables, f-meet it is, I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain:: At least, I am sure, it may be

in Denmark:

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


My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,
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 shirt; his knees knocking each other,
And with a look so piteous in purport,
As if he had been loosed out of hell,
To speak of horrors,—he comes before me.

Pól. Mad for thy love?

My lord, I do not know; But, truly, I do fear it. * Head.

† Sayings, sentences. # Memorandum-book. & Hanging down like fatters.


What said he?. Oph. He took me by the wrist, 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 such perusal of my face, As he would draw it. Long stay'd be so; At last_a little shaking of mine arm, And thrice his head thus waving up and down,He rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound, As it did seem to shatter all his bulk, * And end his being: That done, he lets me go And, with his head over his shoulder turn’d, He tem’d to find his way without his eyes: For out o’ doors he went without their helps, And, to the last, bended their light on me.


Beshrew my jealousy!
It seems it is as proper to our age
To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions,
As it is conimon for the younger sort
To lack discretion.


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Why, then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so; to me it is a prison.

REFLECTIONS ON MAN. I have of late, (but, wherefore, I know not,) lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises: and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why it appears no other thing to me, than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in 'faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in apprehension, how like

* Body

a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me, nor woman neither; though, by your smiling, you seem to say so.



0, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous, that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul to his own conceit. Thát from her working, all his visage wann'd; 'Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting, With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing ! For Hecuba! What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her? What would he do, Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears, And cleave the general ear with horrid speech; Make mad the guilty, and appal the free, Confound the ignorant; and amaze, indeed, The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, Like John a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, And can say nothing; no, not for a king, Upon whose property, and most dear life, A'damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i'the

throat, As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this? Ha! Why, I should take it: for it cannot be, But I am pigeon liver'd, and lack gall To make oppression bitter; or, ere this, I should bave fatted all the region kites With this slave's offal: Bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain!

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Way, what an ass am I? This is most brave;
That I, the son of a dear father murder'd,
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words,
And fall a cursing, like a very drab,
A scullion.
Fie upon't! foh! About my brains! Humph! I have

That guilty creatures, sitting at a play,
Have by the very cunning of the scene
Been struck so to the soul, that presently
They have proclaimed their malefactions:
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players
Play something like the murder of my father,
Before mine uncle: I'll observe his looks;
I'll tent him to the quick; if he do blench,
I know my course.

The spirit I have seen,
May be a devil: and the devil hath power

To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and, perhaps,
Out of my weakness, and my melancholy,
(As he is very potent with such spirits)
Åbuses me to damn me: I'll have grounds
More relative than this: The play's the thing
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.

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We are oft to blame in this.
'Tis too much prov'd, -that, with devotion's visage,
And pious action, we do sugar o’er
The devil himself.

0, 'tis too true! how smart
A lash that speech doth give my conscience!
The harlot's cheek, beautied with plastering art,
Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it,
Than is my deed to my most painted word,

To be, or not to be, that is the question:-
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer

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