GERTRUDE, Queen of Denmark, and mother of Hamlet. Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Players, Grave-diggers, Sailors, Mes SCENE, ELSINORE. Ver.13° ACT I. SCENE I.-Elsinore. A Platform before the Castle. Fran. You come most carefully upon your hour. Ber. 'Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco. And I am sick at heart. Ber. Have you had quiet guard ? Ber. Well, good night. If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, Not a mouse stirring. The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste. Enter HORATIO and MARCELLUS. Fran. I think I hear them—Stand, ho! Who is there? Hor. Friends to this ground. Mar. Fran. Give you good night. Who hath reliev'd you ? And liegemen to the Dane. O, farewell, honest soldier: A piece of him. Hor. Ber. Welcome, Horatio; welcome, good Marcellus. Mar. Horatio says, 'tis but our fantasy; And will not let belief take hold of him, Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us: And let us once again assail your ears, Hor. Sit down awhile; Well, sit we down, And let us hear Bernardo speak of this. Ber. Last night of all, When yon same star, that's westward from the pole, The bell then beating one, Mar. Peace, break thee off; look, where it comes again! Enter Ghost. Ber. In the same figure, like the king that's dead. Mar Speak to it, Horatio. Hor. What art thou, that usurp'st this time of night, Together with that fair and warlike form In which the majesty of buried Denmark Did sometimes march? by heaven I charge thee, speak. Ber. See! it stalks away. Hor. Stay; speak: speak,I charge thee, speak. Mar. 'Tis gone, and will not answer. [Exit Ghost Ber. How now, Horatio? you tremble, and look pale: Is not this something more than fantasy? What think you of it? Hor. I might not this believe. Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes. Mar. Is it not like the king? Hor. As thou art to thyself: Such was the very armour he had on, When he the ambitious Norway combated; So frown'd he once, when, in an angry parle, He smote the sledded Polack on the ice. 'Tis strange. Mar. Thus, twice before, and jump at this dead hour, With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch. Hor. In what particular thought to work, I know not; The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Re-enter Ghost. But, soft; behold! lo, where it comes again! Speak to me: If there be any good thing to be done, If thou art privy to thy country's fate, O, speak! Or, if thou hast uphoarded in thy life Extorted treasure from the depths of earth, For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death: Speak of it :-stay, and speak. Mar. 'Tis gone! We do it wrong, being so majestical, To offer it the show of violence. [Exit Ghost. Ber. It was about to speak, when the cock crew. Upon a fearful summons. I have heard, The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Mar. It faded on the crowing of the cock. Hor. So have I heard, and do in part believe it. Mar. Let's do't, I pray; and I this morning know [Exeunt. SCENE II.-The same. A Room of State in the same. Enter the KING, QUEEN, HAMLET, POLONIUS, LAERTES, Lords, and Attendants. King. Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death The memory be green; and that it us befitted To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom To be contracted in one brow of woe; Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature, Your leave and favor to return to France; From whence though willingly I came to Denmark, Yet now, I must confess, that duty done, My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France, King. Have you your father's leave? What says Polonius? I do beseech you, give him leave to go. King. Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine, Ham. A little more than kin, and less than kind. Seek for thy noble father in the dust: Thou know'st, 'tis common; all that live, must die, Ham. Ay, madam, it is common. If it be, [Aside. Ham. Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not 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, King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father: But, you must know, your father lost a father; That father lost, lost his; and the survivor bound, In filial obligation, for some tern. To do obsequious sorrow: But to perséver In obstinate condolement, is a course Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief: A heart unfortified, or mind impatient: |