King.
Love! his affections do not that way tend,
Nor what he spake, tho' it lack'd form a little,
Was not like madness. Something's in his soul,
O'er which his melancholy sits on brood,
And I do doubt the hatch and the disclose
Will be some danger, which how to prevent,
I have in quick determination
Thus set it down. He shall with speed to England,
For the demand of our neglected tribute:
Haply the seas and countries different,
With variable objects, shall expel
This something settled matter in his heart;

Whereon his brains still beating, puts him thus
From fashion of himself. What think you on't?

Pol.
It shall do well. But yet do I believe
The origin and commencement of this grief
Sprung from neglected love. How now, Ophelia?
You need not tell us what lord Hamlet said,
We heard it all. My lord, do as you please;
But if you hold it fit after the play,
Let his Queen-mother all alone intreat him
To shew his griefs; let her be round with him:
And I'll be plac'd, so please you, in the ear
Of all their conf'rence. If she find him not,
To England send him; or confine him where
Your wisdom best shall think.

King.
It shall be so:
Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd go. [Exeunt.

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