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O heat, dry up my brains ! tears seven times salt,
Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye ! -
By heaven, thy madness shall be paid with weight,
Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May !
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia ! -
O heavens ! is’t possible, a young maid’s wits
Should be as mortal as an old man's life?
Nature is fine in love ; and, where 'tis fine,
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves.

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Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge,
It could not move thus.

Ophelia. You must sing, Down-a-down, an you call him a-down-a. O, how the wheel becomes it ! it is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter.

Laertes. This nothing 's more than matter.

Ophelia. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; 'pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

Laertes. A document in madness; thoughts and remembrance fitted.

Ophelia. There's fennel for you, and columbines :there's rue for you ; and here's some for me :-we may call it, herb of grace o' Sundays :-0! you must wear your rue with a difference.— There's a daisy :- I would give you some violets; but they withered all, when my father died :—They say, he made a good end.


Queen. There is a willow grows ascaunt the brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream:

Therewith fantastick garlands did she make
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them :
There on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies, and herself,
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up :
Which time, she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indu'd
Unto that element : but long it could not be,
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pulld the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.

Laertes. Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,
And therefore I forbid my tears : But yet
It is our trick; nature her custom holds,
Let shame say what it will : when these are gone,
The woman will be out.-Adieu, my lord !
I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze,
But that this folly drowns it.

Let's follow, Gertrude :
How much I had to do to calm his rage !
Now fear I, this will give it start again;
Therefore, let's follow.



ist. Priest. Her obsequies have been as far enlarg'd As we have warranty : Her death was doubtful ;

And, but that great command o'ersways the order,
She should in ground unsanctified have lodg'd
Till the last trumpet; for charitable prayers,
Shards, flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her,
Yet here she is allow'd her virgin crants,
Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home
Of bell and burial.

Laertes. Must there no more be done?
Ist. Priest.

No more be done !
We should profane the service of the dead
To sing a requiem, and such rest to her
As to peace-parted souls.

Lay her i' the earth ;-
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring !—I tell thee, churlish priest,
A ministering angel shall my sister be,
When thou liest howling.

What! the fair Ophelia ?
Queen. Sweets to the sweet : Farewell ! 6

[Scattering flowers.
I hop'd, thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife;
I thought; thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet maid,
And not t have strew'd thy grave.

O, treble woe
Fall ten times treble on that cursed head
Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense
Depriv'd thee of !-Hold off the earth awhile,
Till I have caught her once more in mine arms.

[Leaps into the grave.
Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead;
Till of this flat a mountain you have made,
To o'ertop old Pelion, or the skyish head
Of blue Olympus.

Hamlet [advancing]. What is he, whose grief
Bears such an emphasis ? whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures the wand'ring stars, and makes them stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers ? this is I,
Hamlet the Dane.

[Leaps into the grave. Laertes. The devil take thy soul !

[Grappling with him.
Hamlet. Thou pray'st not well.
I prythee, take thy fingers from my throat;
For, though I am not splenetive and rash,
Yet have I in me something dangerous
Which let thy wisdom fear.—Hold off thy hand.

King. Pluck them asunder.

Hamlet! Hamlet !
All. Gentlemen,-

Good my lord, be quiet.
Hamlet. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme
Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

Queen. O my son ! what theme?

Hamlet. I lov'd Ophelia ; forty thousand brothers
Could not, with all their quantity of love,
Make up my sum.—What wilt thou do for her?

King. O, he is mad, Laertes.
Queen. For love of God, forbear him.

Hamlet. 'Zounds, show me what thou'lt do:
Woul't weep? woul't fight? woul't fast? woul't tear thyself?
Woul't drink up Esil ? eat a crocodile ?
I'll do't.— Dost thou come here to whine?
To outface me with leaping in her grave ?
Be buried quick with her, and so will I:
And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw
Millions of acres on us; till our ground,
Singeing his pate against the burning zone,

Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou'lt mouth,
I'll rant as well as thou.

This is mere madness :
And thus awhile the fit will work on him;
Anon, as patient as the female dove,
When that her golden couplets are disclosed,
His silence will sit drooping.

Hear you, sir;
What is the reason that you use me thus ?
I lov'd you ever : But it is no matter;
Let Hercules himself do what he may,
The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

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