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No reckoning made, but sent to my account
Ham. O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else?
And shall I couple hell?-O fie!-Hold, hold, my And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, [heart; But bear me stiffly up!-Remember thee?
Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat In this distracted globe*.
Yea, from the table of my memory
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,
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!
That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;
So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word;
OPHELIA'S DESCRIPTION OF HAMLET'S MAD ADDRESS TO HER.
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 ancle; 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.
My lord, I do not know;
What said he?
Oph. He took me by the wrist, and held me hard;
As he would draw it. Long stay'd he so;
And thrice his head thus waving up and down,--
Beshrew my jealousy!
It seems it is as proper to our age
HAPPINESS CONSISTS IN OPINION.
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 steril 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 pestiÎent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a 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 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.
HAMLET'S REFLECTIONS ON THE PLAYER AND
O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
Is it not monstrous, that this player here,
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her? What would he do,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak,
Why, I should take it: for it cannot be,
Why, 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,
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
power To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and, perhaps, Out of my weakness, and my melancholy (As he is very potent with such spirits), Abuses 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.
We are oft to blame in this,——
'Tis too much prov'd, that, with devotion's And pious action, we do sugar o'er
The devil himself.
O, 'tis too true! how smart
A lash that speech doth give my conscience! * Search his wounds. + Shrink, or start.