Oph.
They bore him bare-fac'd on the bier,
And on his Grave rain'd many a tear;
Fare you well, my dove!
Laer.
Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade Revenge,
-- 266 --
It could not move thus.
Oph.
You must sing, down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.
6 note
O how the wheel becomes it! it is the false steward
that stole his master's daughter.
Laer.
This nothing's more than matter.
Oph.
7 noteThere's rosemary, that's for remembrance.
Pray, love, remember. And there's pansies, that's for
thoughts.
Laer.
A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance
fitted.
Oph.
There's fennel for you, and columbines.
8 noteThere's rue for you, and here's some for me. We
-- 267 --
may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. You may wear
your rue with a difference; there's a daisy. I would
give you some violets, but they withered all when my
father dy'd. They say, he made a good end;
For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
Laer.
Thought, and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour, and to prettiness.
Oph.
And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
No, no, he is dead,
Go to thy death-bed,
He never will come again.
His beard was white as snow,
All flaxen was his poll:
He is gone, he is gone,
And we cast away mone,
Gramercy on his soul!
And on all christian souls! God b'wi'ye.
[Exit Oph.
Laer.
Do you see this, you Gods!
King.
Laertes, I must commune with your grief,
Or you deny me right. Go but a-part.
Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will,
And they shall hear and judge 'twixt you and me.
If by direct or by collateral hand
They find us touch'd, we will our Kingdom give,
Our Crown, our life, and all that we call ours,
To you in satisfaction. But if not,
Be you content to lend your patience to us;
And we shall jointly labour with your soul,
To give it due content.
Laer.
Let this be so.
His means of death, his obscure funeral,
-- 268 --
9 noteNo trophy, sword, nor hatchment o'er his bones,
No noble rite, nor formal ostentation,
Cry to be heard, as 'twere from heav'n to earth,
That I must call't in question.
King.
So you shall:
1 note
And where th' offence is, let the great ax fall.
I pray you go with me.
[Exeunt.
Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
