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a year: but, by’r lady, he must build churches then; or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is ‘For, O, for, O, the hobby-horse is forgot!’

       [Trumpets sound. The dumb show enters.]

       [Enter a King and a Queen very lovingly; the Queen embracing him and he her. She kneels, and makes show of protestation unto him. He takes her up, and declines his head upon her neck: lays him down upon a bank of flowers: she, seeing him asleep, leaves him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes off his crown, kisses it, pours poison in the king’s ears, and exit. The Queen returns, finds the King dead, and makes passionate action. The Poisoner with some three or four Mutes, comes in again, seeming to lament with her. The dead body is carried away. The Poisoner wooes the Queen with gifts; she seems loth and unwilling awhile, but in the end accepts his love.]

       [Exeunt.]

       Oph.

       What means this, my lord?

       Ham.

       Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief.

       Oph.

       Belike this show imports the argument of the play.

       [Enter Prologue.]

       Ham. We shall know by this fellow: the players cannot keep counsel; they’ll tell all.

       Oph.

       Will he tell us what this show meant?

       Ham. Ay, or any show that you’ll show him: be not you ashamed to show, he’ll not shame to tell you what it means.

       Oph.

       You are naught, you are naught: I’ll mark the play.

       Pro.

       For us, and for our tragedy,

       Here stooping to your clemency,

       We beg your hearing patiently.

       Ham.

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

       Oph.

       ‘Tis brief, my lord.

       Ham.

       As woman’s love.

       [Enter a King and a Queen.]

       P. King.

       Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart gone round

       Neptune’s salt wash and Tellus’ orbed ground,

       And thirty dozen moons with borrow’d sheen

       About the world have times twelve thirties been,

       Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands,

       Unite commutual in most sacred bands.

       P. Queen.

       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’s fear and love holds quantity;

       In neither aught, 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 littlest doubts are fear;

       Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.

       P. King.

       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,—

       P. Queen.

       O, 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’d the first.

       Ham.

       [Aside.] Wormwood, wormwood!

       P. Queen.

       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.

       P. King.

       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 fruit 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 enactures 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 even our loves should with our fortunes change;

       For ‘tis a question left us yet to prove,

       Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.

       The great man down, you mark his favourite 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:

       So think thou wilt no second husband wed;

       But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.

       P. Queen.

       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!

       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! [To Ophelia.]

       P. King.

       ‘Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile;

       My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile

       The tedious day with sleep.

       [Sleeps.]

       P. Queen.

       Sleep rock thy brain,

       And never come mischance between us twain!

      

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