Dead. King. King. Let him demand his fill. But not by him. Laer. How came he dead? I'll not be juggled with: To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil! I dare damnation: to this point I stand ;- King. Who shall stay you? Laer. My will, not all the world's; And, for my means, I'll husband them so well, They shall go far with little. If King. Good Laertes, you desire to know the certainty Of your dear father's death, is 't writ in your re venge, That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and foe, Winner and loser? Laer. None but his enemies. King. Will you know them then? Laer. To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my arms; And, like the kind life-rendering pelican, Repast them with my blood. King. Why, now you speak Like a good child and a true gentleman. That I am guiltless of your father's death, And am most sensibly in grief for it, Danes. [within.] Let her come in. Enter OPHELIA, fantastically dressed with straws and flowers. O heat, dry up my brains! tears, seven times salt, O heavens! is 't possible, a young maid's wits Oph. They bore him barefaced on the bier; And in his grave rain'd many a tear.' Fare you well, my dove! Laer. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus. Oph. You must sing, 'Down a-down, an you call him a-down-a.' O, how the wheel1 becomes it! 1 The burthen of the song. It is the false steward that stole his master's daughter. Laer. This nothing's more than matter. Oph. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. Laer. A document in madness; thoughts and remembrance fitted. Oph. There's fennel for you, and columbines : -there's rue for you; and here's some for me :we may call it herb of grace o' Sundays:-you may wear your rue with a difference.1-There's a daisy: -I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died :-they say, he made a good end; For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.' [sings. Laer. Thought and affliction, passion, hell it self, She turns to favor and to prettiness. Oph. 'And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead; Go to thy death-bed; He never will come again. [sings. i. e. by its Sunday name, herb of grace; while inine re tains the name of rue, i. e. sorrow. |