Ham.

Is this a prologue, or the posie of a ring?

Oph.

'Tis brief, my lord.

Ham.

As woman's love.

Duke.
Full thirty times hath Phœbus' Carr gone round
Neptune's salt wash, and Tellus' orbed ground;
And thirty dozen moons with borrowed sheen
About the world have time twelve thirties been,
Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands,
Unite commutual, in most sacred bands.

Dutch.
So many journeys may the Sun and Moon
Make us again count o'er, ere love be done.
But woe is me, you are so sick of late,
So far from cheer and from your former state,

That I distrust you; yet though I distrust,
Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must:
For women fear too much, ev'n as they love.
And womens' fear and love hold quantity;
'Tis either none, or in extremity.
Now, what my love is, proof hath made you know;
And as my love is siz'd, my fear is so.
Where love is great, the smallest doubts are fear;
Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.

Duke.
Faith, I must leave thee, Love, and shortly too:
My operant powers their functions leave to do,
And thou shalt live in this fair world behind,
Honour'd, belov'd; and, haply, one as kind
For husband shalt thou—

Dutch.
Oh, confound the rest!
Such love must needs be treason in my breast:
In second husband let me be accurst!
None wed the second, but who kill the first.

Ham.
Wormwood, wormwood!—

Dutch.
The instances, that second marriage move,
Are base respects of thrift, but none of love.
A second time I kill my husband dead,
When second husband kisses me in bed.

Duke.
I do believe, you think what now you speak;
But what we do determine, oft we break;
Purpose is but the slave to memory,
Of violent birth, but poor validity:
Which now, like fruits unripe, sticks on the tree,
But fall unshaken, when they mellow be.
Most necessary 'tis, that we forget
To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt:
What to ourselves in passion we propose,
The passion ending, doth the purpose lose;
The violence of either grief or joy,
Their own enactors with themselves destroy.

Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament;
Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.
This world is not for aye; nor 'tis not strange,
That ev'n our loves should with our fortunes change.
For 'tis a question left us yet to prove,
Whether love leads fortune, or else fortune love.
The Great man down, you mark, his fav'rite flies;
The poor advanc'd, makes friends of enemies.
And hitherto doth love on fortune tend,
For who not needs, shall never lack a friend;
And who in want a hollow friend doth try,
Directly seasons him his enemy.
But orderly to end where I begun,
Our wills and fates do so contrary run,
That our devices still are overthrown;
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
Think still, thou wilt no second husband wed;
But die thy thoughts, when thy first lord is dead.

Dutch.
Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light!
Sport and repose lock from me, day and night!
To desperation turn my trust and hope!
^{4 note}An Anchor's cheer in prison be my scope!
Each opposite, that blanks the face of joy,
Meet what I would have well, and it destroy!
Both here, and hence, pursue me lasting strife!
If, once a widow, ever I be wife.

Ham.
If she should break it now—

Duke.
'Tis deeply sworn; Sweet, leave me here a while;
My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile
The tedious day with sleep. [Sleeps.

Dutch.
Sleep rock thy brain,
And never come mischance between us twain! [Exit.

Ham.

Madam, how like you this Play?

Queen.

The lady protests too much, methinks.

Ham.

Oh, but she'll keep her word.

King.

Have you heard the argument, is there no offence in't?

Ham.

No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest, no offence i' th' world.

King.

What do you call the Play?

Ham.

The Mouse-Trap;—Marry, how? tropically. This Play is the image of a murther done in Vienna; Gonzago is the Duke's name, his wife's Baptista; you shall see anon, 'tis a knavish piece of Work; but what o' that? your Majesty, and we that have free souls, it touches us not; let the gall'd jade winch, our withers are unwrung.

This is one Lucianus, nephew to the Duke.

Oph.

You are as good as a chorus, my lord.

Ham.

I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying.

Oph.

You are keen, my lord, you are keen.

Ham.

It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge.

Oph.

Still better and worse.

Ham.
So you mistake your husbands.
Begin, murtherer.—Leave thy damnable faces, and begin.
Come, the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.

Luc.
Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing:
Confederate season, and no creature seeing:
Thou mixture rank, of mid-night weeds collected,
With Hecate's ban thrice blasted, thirce infected,
Thy natural magick, and dire property,
On wholsom life usurp immediately. [Pours the poison into his ears.

Ham.

He poisons him i' th' garden for's estate; his name's Gonzago; the story is extant, and writ in choice Italian. You shall see anon how the murtherer gets the love of Gonzago's wife.

Oph.

The King rises.

Ham.

What, frighted with false fire!

Queen.

How fares my lord?

Pol.

Give o'er the Play.

King.

Give me some light. Away!

All.

Lights, lights, lights!