King.
And can you by no drift of conference
Get from him why he puts on this confusion,
Grating so harshly all his days of quiet,
With turbulent and dang'rous lunacy?

Ros.
He does confess, he feels himself distracted;
But from what cause he will by no means speak.

Guil.
Nor do we find him forward to be sounded;
But with a crafty madness keeps aloof,
When we would bring him on to some confession
Of his true state.

Queen.
Did he receive you well?

Ros.
Most like a gentleman.

Guil.
But with much forcing of his disposition.

Ros.
^{1 note}

Queen.
Did you assay him to any pastime?

Ros.
Madam, it so fell out, that certain Players

^{2 note}We o'er-rode on the way; of these we told him;
And there did seem in him a kind of joy
To hear of it: they are about the Court;
And (as I think) they have already order
This night to play before him.

Pol.
'Tis most true:
And he beseech'd me to intreat your Majesties
To hear and see the matter.

King.
With all my heart, and it doth much content me
To hear him so inclin'd.
Good gentlemen, give him a further edge,
And drive his purpose into these delights.

Ros.
We shall, my lord. [Exeunt.

King.
Sweet Gertrude, leave us too;
For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither,
That he, as 'twere by accident, may here
Affront Ophelia. Her father, and my self,
Will so bestow our selves, that, seeing, unseen,
We may of their encounter frankly judge;
And gather by him, as he is behaved,
If't be th' affliction of his love, or no,
That thus he suffers for.

Queen.
I shall obey you:
And for my part, Ophelia, I do wish,
That your good beauties be the happy cause
Of Hamlet's wildness: So shall I hope, your virtues
May bring him to his wonted way again
To both your honours.

Oph.
Madam, I wish it may. [Exit Queen.

Pol.
Ophelia, walk you here.—Gracious, so please ye,
We will bestow ourselves—Read on this book;

That shew of such an exercise may colour
Your loneliness. We're oft to blame in this,
'Tis too much prov'd, that with devotion's visage,
And pious action, we do sugar o'er
The devil himself.

King.
Oh, 'tis too true.
How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience!
The harlot's cheek, beautied with plastring art,
Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it,
Than is my deed to my most painted word. [Aside.
Oh heavy burthen!

Pol.
I hear him coming; let's withdraw, my lord. [Exeunt all but Ophelia.

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