You that look pale and tremble at this chance, Thou liv'st; report me and my cause aright I am more an antique Roman than a Dane, Ham. As thou 'rt a man, Give me the cup; let go; by heaven I'll have it. O, good Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me? Absent thee from felicity a while, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story. [March afar off, and shot within. What warlike noise is this? Osr. Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland, Ham. O, I die, Horatio; The potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit ; Good night, sweet prince; [Dies. [March within Enter FORTINBRAS, the English Ambassadors, and others. Fort. Where is this sight? Hor. What is it ye would see ? If aught of woe, or wonder, cease your search. Fort. This quarry cries on havoc.-O proud death! What feast is toward in thine eternal cell, That thou so many princes, at a shoot, So bloodily hast struck? ↑ Amb. The sight is dismal; And our affairs from England come too late : The ears are senseless that should give us hearing, That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead : Not from his mouth, Hor. You from the Polack wars, and you from England Fall'n on the inventors' heads: all this can I Fort. Let us haste to hear it, And call the noblest to the audience. For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune; I have some rights of memory in this kingdom, Hor. Of that I shall have always cause to speak, E'en while men's minds are wild; lest more mischance, Fort. Let four captains Bear Hamlet, like a soldier, to the stage; For he was likely, had he been put on, To have prov'd most royally: and, for his passage, 'The soldiers' music, and the rights of war, Speak loudly for him. Take up the body :-Such a sight as this Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss. Go, bid the soldiers shoot. [A dead March. [Exeunt, marching; after which a peal of ordnance is shot off. From isles of Greece IN Troy there lies the scene. With wanton Paris sleeps,—and that's the quarrel. And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge VOL. III. G Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits, Like, or find fault; do as your pleasures are; ACT I. SCENE I.-Troy. Before Priam's Palace. Enter TROILUS armed, and PANDARUS. Tro. Call here my varlet, I'll unarm again : Tro. The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength, But I am weaker than a woman's tear, Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance, Less valiant than the virgin in the night, And skill-less as unpractis'd infancy. Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this: for my part I'll not meddle nor make no farther. He that will have a cake out of the Pan. Ay, the grinding: but you must tarry the bolting. Have I not tarried? Pan. Ay, the bolting: but you must tarry the leavening. Pan. Ay, to the leavening but here's yet in the word hereafter, the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven, and the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn your lips. Tro. Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be Doth lesser blench at sufferance than I do. At Priam's royal table do I sit; And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts, So, traitor! when she comes !-When is she thence? Pan. Well, she looked yesternight fairer than ever I saw her look, or any woman else. Tro. I was about to tell thee,-When my heart, As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain ; But sorrow that is couch'd in seeming gladness Pan. An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen's, (well, go to,) there were no more comparison between the women.-But, for my part, she is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it, praise her, But I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit; butTro. O, Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,— When I do tell thee, there my hopes lie drown'd, Reply not in how many fathoms deep They lie indrench'd. I tell thee, Í am mad In Cressid's love: Thou answer'st, she is fair; Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice; In whose comparison all whites are ink, Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure The cygnet's down is harsh, and spirit of sense Hard as the palm of ploughman ; this thou tell'st me, But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm, Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me The knife that made it. Pan. I speak no more than truth. Tro. Thou dost not speak so much. Pan. 'Faith, I'll not meddle in 't. Let her be as she is: if she be fair 'tis the better for her; an she be not, she has the mends in her own hands. Tro. Good Pandarus! How now, Pandarus? Pan. I have had my labour for my travail; ill-thought on of her, and ill-thought on of you: gone between and between, but small thanks for my labour. Tro. What, art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me? Pan. Because she is kin to me, therefore she's not so fair as Helen an she were not kin to me, she would be as fair on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not an she were a black-a-moor; 'tis all one to me. Tro. Say I she is not fair? Pan. I do not care whether you do or no. She's a fool to stay behind her father; let her to the Greeks; and so I'll tell her the next time I see her: for my part, I'll meddle nor make no more in the matter. Tro. Pandarus,— Pan. Not I. Tro. Sweet Pandarus. Pan. Pray you, speak no more to me; I will leave all as I found it, and there an end. [Exit PANDARUS. An alarum. Tro. Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace, rude sounds! |