SCENE V. Elsinore. Aroom in the Castle.
Enter Horatio, Queen, and a Gentleman.
Queen. I will not speak with her. Gent. She is importunate, indeed distract. Her mood will needs be pitied. Queen. What would she have? Gent. She speaks much of her father; says she hears There's tricks i' th' world, and hems, and beats her heart; Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt, That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts; Which, as her winks and nods and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. Hor. 'Twere good she were spoken with; for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds. Queen. Let her come in.[Exit Gentleman.] [Aside] To my sick soul (as sin's true nature is) Each toy seems Prologue to some great amiss. So full of artless jealousy is guilt It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
Enter Ophelia distracted.
Oph. Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark? Queen. How now, Ophelia? Oph. (sings)How should I your true-love knowFrom another one?By his cockle bat and' staffAnd his sandal shoon.
Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song? Oph. Say you? Nay, pray You mark.
(Sings) He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
O, ho! Queen. Nay, but Ophelia- Oph. Pray you mark.
(Sings) White his shroud as the mountain snow-
Enter King.
Queen. Alas, look here, my lord! Oph. (Sings)Larded all with sweet flowers;Which bewept to the grave did not goWith true-love showers.
King. How do you, pretty lady? Oph. Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table! King. Conceit upon her father. Oph. Pray let's have no words of this; but when they ask, you what it means, say you this:
(Sings) To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day, All in the morning bedtime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose and donn'd his clo'es And dupp'd the chamber door, Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more.
King. Pretty Ophelia! Oph. Indeed, la, without an oath, I'll make an end on't!
[Sings] By Gis and by Saint Charity, Alack, and fie for shame! Young men will do't if they come to't By Cock, they are to blame.
Quoth she, 'Before you tumbled me, You promis'd me to wed.'
He answers:
'So would I 'a' done, by yonder sun, An thou hadst not come to my bed.'
King. How long hath she been thus? Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be patient; but I cannot choose but weep to think they would lay him i' th' cold ground. My brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies. Good night, sweet ladies. Good night, good night. Exit King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.[Exit Horatio.]
O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springsAll from her father's death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies. But in battalions! First, her father slain; Next, your son gone, and he most violent author Of his own just remove; the people muddied, Thick and and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers For good Polonius' death, and we have done but greenly In hugger-mugger to inter him; poor Ophelia Divided from herself and her fair judgment, Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts; Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France; And wants not buzzers to infect his ear Feeds on his wonder, keep, himself in clouds, With pestilent speeches of his father's death, Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd, Will nothing stick our person to arraign In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like to a murd'ring piece, in many places Give me superfluous death.A noise within. Queen. Alack, what noise is this? King. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door.
Enter a Messenger.
What is the matter? Mess. Save Yourself, my lord: The ocean, overpeering of his list, Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste Than Young Laertes, in a riotous head, O'erbears Your offices. The rabble call him lord; And, as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, custom not known, The ratifiers and props of every word, They cry 'Choose we! Laertes shall be king!' Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds, 'Laertes shall be king! Laertes king!'A noise within. Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs! King. The doors are broke.
Enter Laertes with others.
