King.
Welcome dear Roseneraus and Guildenstern,
Moreover, that we much did long to see you,
The need we have to use you, did provoke
Our hasty sending. Something have you heard
Of Hamlet's Transformation; so I call it,
Since not th' exterior, nor the inward Man
Resembles that it was. What it should be
More than his Father's Death, that thus hath put him
So much from th' understanding of himself,
I cannot deem of. I intreat you both,
That being of so young Days brought up with him,
And since so neighbour'd to his Youth, and Humour,
That you vouchsafe your rest here in our Court,
Some little time, so by your Companies,
To draw him on to Pleasures, and to gather
So much as from Occasions you may glean,
If ought, to us unknown, afflicts him thus,
That open'd lies within our remedy.

Queen.
Good Gentlemen he hath much talk'd of you,
And sure I am, two Men there are not living,
To whom he more adheres. If it will please you
To shew us so much gentry and good will,
As to expend your time with us a while,
For the supply and profit of our hope,
Your Visitation shall receive such Thanks,
As fits a King's remembrance.

Ros.
Both your Majesties
Might by the Sovereign Power you have of us,
Put your dread Pleasures, more into Command
Than to Entreaty.

Guil.
But we both obey,
And here give up our selves, in the full bent,
To lay our Service freely at your Feet,
To be commanded.

King.
Thanks, Roseneraus, and gentle Guildenstern,

Queen.
Thanks, Guildenstern, and gentle Roseneraus;
And I beseech you instantly to visit

My too much changed Son. Go some of ye,
And bring the Gentlemen where Hamlet is.

Guil.
Heav'ns make our Presence and our Practices
Pleasant and helpful to him. [Exeunt Ros. and Guil.

Queen.
Amen. Enter Polonius.

Pol.
The Ambassadors from Norway, my good Lord,
Are joyfully return'd.

King.
Thou still hast been the Father of good News.

Pol.
Have I, my Lord? Assure you, my good Liege,
I hold my Duty, as I hold my Soul,
Both to my God, and to my gracious King;
And I do think, or else this Brain of mine
Hunts not the trail of Policy, so sure
As I have us'd to do, that I have found
The very cause of Hamlet's Lunacy.

King.
O speak of that, that I do long to hear.

Pol.
Give first admittance to th' Ambassadors,
My News shall be the News to that great Feast.

King.
Thy self do Grace to them, and bring them in. [Ex. Pol.
He tells me, my sweet Queen, that he hath found
The head and source of all your Son's Distemper.

Queen.
I doubt it is no other, but the main,
His Father's Death, and our o'er-hasty Marriage. Enter Polonius, Voltimand, and Cornelius.

King.
Well, we shall sift him. Welcome, good Friends!
Say Voltimand, what from our Brother Norway?

Volt.
Most fair return of Greetings, and Desires.
Upon our first, he sent out to suppress
His Nephew's Levies, which to him appear'd
To be a Preparation 'gainst the Polak:
But better look'd into, he truly found
It was against your Highness. Whereat grieved,
That so his Sickness, Age, and Impotence
Was falsely born in Hand, sends out Arrests
On Fortinbras, which he, in brief, obeys,
Receives rebuke from Norway; and in fine,
Makes Vow before his Uncle, never more
To give th' assay of Arms against your Majesty.
Whereon old Norway, overcome with Joy,
Gives him three thousand Crowns in annual Fee,

And his Commission to imploy those Soldiers
So levied as before, against the Polak:
With an intreaty herein further shewn,
That it might please you to give quiet pass
Through your Dominions for his Enterprize.
On such regards of Safety and Allowance,
As therein are set down.

King.
It likes us well:
And at our more consider'd time we'll read,
Answer, and think upon this Business.
Mean time we thank you, for your well-look'd labour.
Go to your rest, at Night we'll feast together.
Most welcome home. [Exit Ambas.

Pol.
This Business is very well ended.
My Liege and Madam, to expostulate
What Majesty should be, what Duty is,
Why Day is Day, Night, Night, and Time is Time,
Were nothing but to waste Night, Day, and Time.
Therefore, since Brevity is the Soul of Wit,
And Tediousness the Limbs and outward Flourishes,
I will be brief; your noble Son is mad.
Mad call I it; for to define true Madness,
What is't, but to be nothing else but mad.
But let that go.

Queen.
More Matter, with less Art.

Pol.
Madam, I swear I use no Art at all;
That he is mad 'tis true; 'tis true, 'tis pity,
And pity, it is true; a foolish Figure,
But farewel it; for I will use no Art.
Mad let us grant him then; and now remains
That we find out the Cause of this Effect,
Or rather say, the Cause of this Defect;
For this effect defective, comes by cause,
Thus it remains, and the remainder thus—Perpend—
I have a Daughter; have, whilst she is mine,
Who in her Duty and Obedience, mark,
Hath given me this; now gather, and surmise. He opens a Letter, and reads.

To the Celestial, and my Soul's Idol, the most beautified Ophelia.

That's an ill Phrase, a vile Phrase, beautified is a vile

Phrase; but you shall hear—These to her excellent white Bosom, these—

Queen.
Came this from Hamlet to her?

Pol.
Good Madam stay a while, I will be faithful.

Doubt thou, the Stars are Fire, [Reading.
Doubt, that the Sun doth move;
Doubt Truth to be a Liar,
But never Doubt, I love.

O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these Numbers; I have not Art to reckon my Groans; but that I love thee best, oh most Best, believe it.

Adieu.
Thine evermore, most dear Lady, whilst this
Machine is to him, Hamlet.

King.
But how hath she receiv'd his Love?

Pol.
What do you think of me?

King.
As of a Man, faithful and honourable.

Pol.
I would fain prove so. But what might you think?
When I had seen his hot Love on the Wing,
As I perceived it, I must tell you that
Before my Daughter told me, what might you
Or my dear Majesty your Queen here, think,
If I had play'd the Desk or Table-book,
Or given my Heart a winking, mute and dumb,
Or look'd upon this love, with idle sight,
What might you think? No, I went round to work,
And my young Mistress thus I did bespeak;
Lord Hamlet is a Prince out of thy Sphere,
This must not be; And then, I Precepts gave her,
That she should lock her self from his Resort,
Admit no Messengers, receive no Tokens:
Which done, she took the fruits of my Advice,
And he repulsed, a short Tale to make,
Fell into a Sadness, then into a Fast,
Thence to a Watch, thence into a Weakness,
Thence to a Lightness, and by this declension
Into the Madness wherein now he raves,
And all we wail for.

King.
Do you think 'tis this?

Queen.
It may be very likely.

Pol.
Hath there been such a time, I'd fain know that,
That I have positively said, 'tis so,
When it prov'd otherwise?

King.
Not that I know.

Pol.
Take this from this, if this be otherwise,
If Circumstances lead me, I will find
Where Truth is hid, though it were hid indeed
Within the Center.

King.
How may we try it further?

Pol.
You know sometimes
He walks four hours together, here
In the Lobby.

Queen.
So he has indeed.

Pol.
At such a time I'll loose my Daughter to him,
Be you and I behind an Arras then,
Mark the Encounter: If he love her not,
And be not from his Reason faln thereon,
Let me be no Assistant for a State,
And keep a Farm and Carters.

King.
We will try it. Enter Hamlet reading.

Queen.
But look where, sadly, the poor Wretch comes Reading.

Pol.
Away, I do beseech you, both away.
I'll board him presently. [Exe. King and Queen.
Oh give me leave. How does my good Lord Hamlet?

Ham.
Well, God-a-mercy.

Pol.
Do you know me, my Lord?

Ham.
Excellent, excellent well; y'are a Fishmonger?

Pol.
Not I, my Lord.

Ham.
Then I would you were so honest a Man.

Pol.
Honest, my Lord?

Ham.
Ay, Sir; to be honest as this World goes, is to be
One pick'd out of two thousand.

Pol.
That's very true, my Lord.

Ham.
For if the Sun breed Maggots in a dead Dog,
Being a good kissing Carrion—
Have you a Daughter?

Pol.
I have, my Lord.

Ham.

Let her not walk i'th' Sun; Conception is a Blessing, but not as your Daughter may conceive. Friend, look to't.

Pol.

How say you by that? Still harping on my Daughter —yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a Fishmonger; he is far gone, far gone; and truly in my Youth, I suffered much extremity for Love; very near this. I'll speak to him again. What do you read, my Lord?

Ham.

Words, words, words.

Pol.

What is the Matter, my Lord?

Ham.

Between whom?

Pol.

I mean the Matter you read, my Lord.

Ham.

Slanders, Sir: For the Satyrical Slave says here, that old Men have gray Beards; that their Faces are wrinkled; their Eyes purging thick Amber, or Plum Tree Gum; and that they have a plentiful lack of Wit, together with weak Hams. All which, Sir, though I most powerfully, and potently believe, yet I hold it not Honesty to have it thus set down: For you your self, Sir, shall be as old as I am, if like a Crab you could go backward.

Pol.
Though this be madness, yet there's Method in't:
Will you walk out of the Air, my Lord?

Ham.
Into my Grave?

Pol.
Indeed that is out o'th' Air:
How pregnant (sometimes) his replies are?
A happiness that often Madness hits on,
Which Reason and Sanity could not
So prosperously be deliver'd of. I will leave him,
And suddenly contrive the means of meeting
Between him and my Daughter.
My honourable Lord, I will most humbly
Take my leave of you.

Ham.

You cannot, Sir, take from me any thing, that I will more willingly part withal, except my Life, my Life.

Pol.

Fare you well, my Lord.

Ham.

These tedious old Fools.

Pol.

You go to seek my Lord Hamlet; there he is.

Enter Roseneraus and Guildenstern.

Ros.

God save you, Sir.

Guild.

Mine honour'd Lord!

Ros.

My most dear Lord!

Ham.

My excellent good Friends! How dost thou Guildenstern? Oh, Roseneraus, good Lads! How do ye both?

Ros.

As the indifferent Children of the Earth.

Guild.

Happy, in that we are not over-happy; on Fortune's Cap, we are not the very Button.

Ham.

Nor the Soals of her Shooe?

Ros.

Neither, my Lord.

Ham.

Then you live about her waste, or in the middle of her Favour?

Guild.

Faith, her privates we.

Ham.

In the secret parts of Fortune? Oh, most true; she is a Strumpet. What's the News?

Ros.

None, my Lord, but that the World's grown Honest.

Ham.

Then is Dooms-day near; but your News is not true. Let me question more in particular: What have you, my good Friends, deserved at the hands of Fortune, that she sends you to Prison hither?

Guild.

Prison, my Lord?

Ham.

Denmark's a Prison.

Ros.

Then is the World one.

Ham.

A goodly one, in which there are many Confines, Wards, and Dungeons; Denmark being one o'th' worst.

Ros.

We think not so, my Lord.

Ham.

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.

Ros.

Why then your Ambition makes it one: 'Tis too narrow for your Mind.

Ham.

O God, I could be bounded in a Nut-shell, and count my self a King of infinite space; were it not that I have bad Dreams.

Guild.

Which Dreams indeed are Ambition; for the very substance of the ambitious, is meerly the shadow of a Dream.

Ham.

A Dream it self is but a Shadow.

Ros.

Truly, and I hold Ambition of so airy and light a quality, that it is but a Shadow's Shadow.

Ham.

Then are our Beggars Bodies, and our Monarchs, and out-stretcht Heroes, the Beggars Shadows; shall we to th' Court? for, by my fey, I cannot reason.

Both.

We'll wait upon you.

Ham.

No such matter. I will not sort you with the rest of my Servants: For, to speak to you like an honest Man, I am most dreadfully attended; but in the beaten way of Friendship. What make you at Elsinoor?

Ros.

To visit you, my Lord, no other Occasion.

Ham.

Beggar that I am, I am even poor in Thanks; but I thank you; and sure, dear Friends, my Thanks are too dear a half-penny; were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free Visitation? Come, deal justly with me; come, come; nay, speak.

Guild.

What should we say, my Lord?

Ham.

Why, any thing, but to the Purpose. You were sent for; and there is a kind of Confession in your looks, which your Modesties have not craft enough to colour. I know the good King and Queen have sent for you.

Ros.

To what end, my Lord?

Ham.

That you must teach me; but let me conjure you by the rights of our Fellowship, by the consonancy of our Youth, by the Obligation of our ever-preserved Love, and by what more dear, a better proposer could charge you withal; be even and direct with me, whether you were sent for or no.

Ros.

What say you?

Ham.

Nay then I have an Eye of you: If you love me, hold not off.

Guild.

My Lord, we were sent for.

Ham.

I will tell you why; so shall my Anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the King and Queen, moult no Feather: I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of Exercise; 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'er-hanging, this Majestical Roof, fretted with

golden Fire, why, it appears no other thing to me, than a foul and pestilent Congregation of Vapours. What a piece of Work is a Man! How Noble in Reason! how infinite in Faculty! 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; no, nor Woman neither, tho' by your smiling you seem to say so.

Ros.

My Lord, there was no such Stuff in my Thoughts.

Ham.

Why did you laugh, when I said, Man delights not me?

Ros.

To think, my Lord, if you delight not in Man, what Lenten Entertainment the Players shall receive from you; we accosted them on the way, and hither are they coming to offer you Service.

Ham.

He that plays the King shall be welcome; his Majesty shall have Tribute of me; the adventurous Knight shall use his Foyle and Target; the Lover shall not sigh gratis, the humorous Man shall end his part in Peace; the Clown shall make those Laugh, whose Lungs are tickl'd ath' sere; and the Lady shall say her mind freely; or the blank Verse shall halt for't. What Players are they?

Ros.

Even those you were wont to take Delight in, the Tragedians of the City.

Ham.

How chances it they travel? their residence both in Reputation and Profit was better, both ways.

Ros.

I think their Inhibition comes by the means of the late Innovation?

Ham.

Do they hold the same Estimation they did when I was in the City? Are they so follow'd?

Ros.

No indeed, they are not.

Ham.

How comes it? do they grow rusty?

Ros.

Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace; But there is, Sir, an airy of Children, little Yases, that cry out on the top of Question; and are most tyrannically clapt for't; these are now the Fashion, and so be-rattle the common Stages (so they call them) that many wearing Rapiers, are afraid of Goose Quills, and dare scarce come thither.

Ham.

What are they Children? Who maintains 'em? How are they escoted? Will they pursue the Quality no longer than they can sing? Will they not say afterwards if they should grow themselves to common Players, as it is like most, if their Means are no better, their Writers do them wrong to make them exclaim against their own Succession.

Ros.

Faith, there has been much to do on both sides; and the Nation holds it no Sin, to tarre them to controversie. There was for a while, no Mony bid for Argument, unless the Poet and the Player went to Cuffs in the Question.

Ham.

Is't possible?

Guild.

Oh there has been much throwing about of Brains.

Ham.

Do the Boys carry it away?

Ros.

Ay, that they do, my Lord, Hercules and his load too.

Ham.

It is not strange, for mine Uncle is King of Denmark, and those that would make mowes at him while my Father lived, give twenty, forty, an hundred Ducates a piece, for his Picture in little. There is something in this more than Natural, if Philosophy could find it out.

Guild.

There are the Players.

Ham.

Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinoor; your Hands, come; the appurtenance of Welcome, is Fashion and Ceremony. Let me comply with you in the Garbe, lest my extent to the Players (which I tell you must shew fairly outward) should more appear like entertainment than yours. You are welcome; but my Uncle Father, and Aunt Mother are deceiv'd.

Guild.

In what, my dear Lord?

Ham.

I am but mad North, North-West: When the Wind is Southerly, I know a Hawk from a Handsaw.

Pol.

Well be with you, Gentlemen.

Ham.

Hark you, Guildenstern, and you too, at each ear a hearer; that great Baby you see there, is not yet out of his swathing Clouts.

Ros.

Haply he's the second time come to them; for they say, an old Man is twice a Child.

Ham.

I will Prophesie, he comes to tell me of the Players. Mark it, you say right, Sir; for on Monday Morning 'twas so indeed.

Pol.
My Lord, I have News to tell you.

Ham.
My Lord, I have News to tell you,
When Roscius was an Actor in Rome—

Pol.
The Actors are come hither, my Lord.

Ham.
Buzze, buzze.

Pol.
Upon mine Honour—

Ham.
Then came each Actor on his Ass—

Pol.

The best Actors in the World, either for Tragedy, Comedy, History, Pastoral, Pastorical-Comical-Historical-Pastoral, Tragical-Historical, Tragical-Comical-Historical-Pastoral, Scene undividable, or Poem unlimited. Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light, for the law of Wit, and the Liberty. These are the only Men.

Ham.

O Jephta, Judge of Israel, what a Treasure hadst thou!

Pol.
What a Treasure had he, my Lord?

Ham.
Why one fair Daughter, and no more,
The which he loved passing well.

Pol.
Still on my Daughter.

Ham.
Am I not i'th' right, old Jephta?

Pol.

If you call me Jephta, my Lord, I have a Daughter that I love passing well.

Ham.

Nay, that follows not.

Pol.

What follows then, my Lord?

Ham.

Why, as by lot, God wot—and then you know, it came to pass, as most like it was; the first row of the Rubrick will shew you more. For look where my Abridgements come.

Y'are welcome Masters, welcome all. I am glad to see thee well; welcome good Friends. Oh! my old Friend! Thy Face is valiant since I saw thee last: Com'st thou to Beard me in Denmark? what my young Lady and Mistress? Berlady your Lordship is nearer Heaven, than when I saw you last, by the Altitude of a Choppine. Pray God your Voice like a piece of uncurrent Gold, be not crack'd within the Ring. Masters, you are all welcome; we'll e'en to't like French Faulconers, fly at any thing we see; we'll have

a speech straight. Come, give us a Taste of your Quality; come, a passionate Speech.

1 Play.

What Speech, my Lord?

Ham.

I heard thee speak me a Speech once, but it was never acted; or if it was, not above once, for the Play I remember pleas'd not the Million, 'twas Caviar to the General; but it was, as I received it, and others, whose Judgment in such Matters, cryed in the top of mine, an excellent Play; well digested in the Scenes, set down with as much modesty, as cunning. I remember one said, there was no Sallets in the Lines, to make the Matter savoury; nor no Matter in the Phrase, that might indite the Author of Affectation, but call'd it an honest Method. One chief Speech in it, I chiefly lov'd, 'twas Æneas Tale to Dido, and thereabout of it especially, where he speaks of Priam's Slaughter. If it live in your Memory, begin at this Line, let me see, let me see—The rugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian Beast. It is not so—it begins with Pyrrhus.

Pol.

'Fore God, my Lord, well spoken, with good accent, and good Discretion.

1 Play.
Anon he finds him,
Striking too short at Greeks. His antick Sword,
Rebellious to his Arm, lyes where it falls
Repugnant to command; unequal match,
Pyrrhus at Priam drives, in rage strikes wide;
But with the whiff and wind of his fell Sword,
Th'unnerved Father falls. Then senseless Ilium,
Seeming to feel his Blow, with flaming Top

Stoops to his Base, and with a hideous crash
Takes Prisoner Pyrrhus Ear. For lo, his Sword,
Which was declining on the milky Head
Of Reverend Priam, seem'd i'th' Air to stick:
So as a Tyrant Pyrrhus stood,
And like a Neutral to his Will and Matter,
Did Nothing.
But as we often see against some Storm,
A Silence in the Heav'ns, the Rack stand still,
The bold winds speechless, and the Orb below
As hush as Death: Anon the dreadful Thunder
Doth rend the Region. So after Pyrrhus pawse,
A rowsed Vengeance sets him new a work,
And never did the Cyclops Hammers fall
On Mars his Armours, forg'd for proof Eterne,
With less Remorse than Pyrrhus bleeding Sword
Now falls on Priam.
Out, out, thou Strumpet-Fortune! all you Gods,
In general Synod take away her Power:
Break all the Spokes and Fellies from her Wheel,
And bowl the round Nave down the Hill of Heav'n,
As low as to the Fiends.

Pol.
This is too long.

Ham.

It shall to th' Barbers with your Beard. Prethee say on; he's for a Jigg, or a tale of Bawdry, or he sleeps. Say on; come to Hecuba.

1 Play.
But who, O who, had seen the Mobled Queen?

Ham.
The Mobled Queen?

Pol.
That's good; Mobled Queen, is good.

1 Play.
Run bare-foot up and down, threatning the Flame
With Bisson Rheum; a Clout about that Head,
Where late the Diadem stood, and for a Robe
About her lank and all o'er-teamed Loyns,
A Blanket in th'alarum of fear caught up.
Who this had seen, with Tongue in Venom steep'd,
'Gainst Fortune's State, would Treason have pronounc'd?
But if the Gods themselves did see her then,
When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport
In mincing with his Sword her Husband's Limbs;
The instant Burst of Clamour that she made,
(Unless things mortal move them not all)

Would have made Milch the burning Eyes of Heav'n,
And Passion in the Gods.

Pol.
Look where he has not turn'd his Colour, and has
Tears in's Eyes. Pray you no more,

Ham.
'Tis well, I'll have thee speak out the rest soon.
Good my Lord, will you see the Players well bestow'd.

Do ye hear, let them be well us'd; for they are the abstracts, and brief Chronicles of the time. After your Death, you were better have a bad Epitaph, than their ill Report while you lived.

Pol.

My Lord, I will use them according to their Desert.

Ham.

Gods bodikins Man, better. Use every Man after his Desert, and who should scape whipping; use them after your own Honour and Dignity. The less they deserve, the more Merit is in your Bounty. Take them in.

Pol.

Come, Sirs.

Ham.

Follow him, Friends: We'll hear a Play to morrow. Dost thou hear me, old Friend, can you play the Murther of Gonzago?

Play.

Ay, my Lord.

Ham.

We'll ha't to morrow Night. You could for a need study a speech of some dozen or sixteen Lines, which I would set down, and insert in't? Could ye not?

Play.

Ay, my Lord.

Ham.

Very well. Follow that Lord, and look you mock him not. My good Friends, I'll leave you 'till Night, you are welcome to Elsinoor.

Ros.
Good my Lord, [Exeunt. Manet Hamlet.

Ham.
Ay so, good b'w'ye: Now I am alone.
O what a Rogue and Peasant Slave am I!
Is it not monstrous that this Player here,
But in a Fiction, in a Dream of Passion,
Could force his Soul so to his whole Conceit,
That from her working, all his Visage warm'd;
Tears in his Eyes, distraction in's aspect,
A broken Voice, and his whole Function suiting
With Forms, to his Conceit? and all for nothing?
For Hecuba?
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,

That he should weep for her? what would he do,
Had he the Motive and the Cue for Passion
That I have? he would drown the Stage with Tears,
And cleave the general Ear with horrid Speech;
Make mad the Guilty, and appall the Free,
Confound the Ignorant, and amaze indeed,
The very faculty of Eyes and Ears. Yet I,
A dull and muddy metled Rascal, peak
Like John-a-deames, unpregnant of my Cause,
And can say nothing: No, not for a King,
Upon whose Property, and most dear Life,
A damn'd Defeat was made. Am I a Coward?
Who calls me Villain, breaks my Pate a-cross,
Plucks off my Beard, and blows it in my Face?
Tweaks me by th'Nose, gives me the lye i'th' Throat,
As deep as to the Lungs? Who does me this?
Ha? Why should I take it? for it cannot be,
But I am Pigeon Liver'd, and lack Gall
To make Oppression bitter, or e'er this,
I should have fatted all the Region Kites
With this Slave's Offal. Bloody, bawdy Villain!
Remorseless, Treacherous, Lecherous, kindless Villain!
Oh Vengeance!
Why what an Ass am I? I sure, this is most brave,
That I, the Son of the dear Murthered,
Prompted to my Revenge by Heav'n and Hell,
Must, like a Whore, unpack my Heart with Words,
And fall a cursing like a very Drab,
A Scullion—Fye upon't! Foh! About my Brain.
I have heard, that guilty Creatures sitting at a Play,
Have by the very cunning of the Scene,
Been struck so to the Soul, that presently
They have proclaim'd their Malefactions.
For Murther, though it have no Tongue, will speak
With most miraculous Organ. I'll have these Players,
Play something like the Murther of my Father,
Before mine Uncle. I'll observe his looks,
I'll tent him to the Quick; if he but blench,
I know my Course. The Spirit that I have seen,
May be the Devil, and the Devil hath Power
T'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. [Exit.

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