Oph.I do not know, my lord, what I should think.
Pol.
Marry, I’ll teach you: think yourself a baby;
That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay,
Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly;
Or,—not to crack the wind of the poor phrase,
Wronging it thus,—you’ll tender me a fool.
Oph.
My lord, he hath importun’d me with love
In honourable fashion.
Pol.
Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to.
Oph.
And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord,
With almost all the holy vows of heaven.
Pol.
Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know,
When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul
Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter,
Giving more light than heat,—extinct in both,
Even in their promise, as it is a-making,—
You must not take for fire. From this time
Be something scanter of your maiden presence;
Set your entreatments at a higher rate
Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet,
Believe so much in him, that he is young;
And with a larger tether may he walk
Than may be given you: in few, Ophelia,
Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers,—
Not of that dye which their investments show,
But mere implorators of unholy suits,
Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds,
The better to beguile. This is for all,—
I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth
Have you so slander any moment leisure
As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.
Look to’t, I charge you; come your ways.
Oph.
I shall obey, my lord.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. The platform.
[Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus.]
Ham.
The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.
Hor.
It is a nipping and an eager air.
Ham.
What hour now?
Hor.
I think it lacks of twelve.
Mar.
No, it is struck.
Hor.
Indeed? I heard it not: then draws near the season
Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.
[A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off within.]
What does this mean, my lord?
Ham.
The King doth wake tonight and takes his rouse,
Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels;
And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,
The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out
The triumph of his pledge.
Hor.
Is it a custom?
Ham.
Ay, marry, is’t;
But to my mind,—though I am native here,
And to the manner born,—it is a custom
More honour’d in the breach than the observance.
This heavy-headed revel east and west
Makes us traduc’d and tax’d of other nations:
They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase
Soil our addition; and, indeed, it takes
From our achievements, though perform’d at height,
The pith and marrow of our attribute.
So oft it chances in particular men
That, for some vicious mole of nature in them,
As in their birth,—wherein they are not guilty,
Since nature cannot choose his origin,—
By the o’ergrowth of some complexion,
Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason;
Or by some habit, that too much o’er-leavens
The form of plausive manners;—that these men,—
Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,
Being nature’s livery, or fortune’s star,—
Their virtues else,—be they as pure as grace,
As infinite as man may undergo,—
Shall in the general censure take corruption
From that particular fault: the dram of eale
Doth all the noble substance often doubt
To his own scandal.
Hor.
Look, my lord, it comes!
[Enter Ghost.]
Ham.
Angels and ministers of grace defend us!—
