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  • Title: Hamlet (Quarto 2, 1604)
  • Textual editor: Eric Rasmussen
  • ISBN: 978-1-55058-434-9

    Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Not Peer Reviewed

    Hamlet (Quarto 2, 1604)

    O heate, dry vp my braines, teares seauen times salt
    Burne out the sence and vertue of mine eye,
    By heauen thy madnes shall be payd with weight
    2910Tell our scale turne the beame. O Rose of May,
    Deere mayd, kind sister, sweet Ophelia,
    O heauens, ist possible a young maids wits
    Should be as mortall as a poore mans life.
    They bore him bare-faste on the Beere, Song.
    And in his graue rain'd many a teare,
    2920Fare you well my Doue.
    Laer. Hadst thou thy wits, and did'st perswade reuenge
    It could not mooue thus.
    Oph. You must sing a downe a downe,
    And you call him a downe a. O how the wheele becomes it,
    It is the false Steward that stole his Maisters daughter.
    Laer. This nothing's more then matter.
    Oph. There's Rosemary, thats for remembrance, pray you loue re-
    member, and there is Pancies, thats for thoughts.
    2930Laer. A document in madnes, thoughts and remembrance fitted.
    Ophe. There's Fennill for you, and Colembines, there's Rewe for
    you, & heere's some for me, we may call it herbe of Grace a Sondaies,
    you may weare your Rewe with a difference, there's a Dasie, I would
    2935giue you some Violets, but they witherd all when my Father dyed,
    they say a made a good end.
    For bonny sweet Robin is all my ioy.
    Laer. Thought and afflictions, passion, hell it selfe
    2940She turnes to fauour and to prettines.
    And wil a not come againe, Song.
    And wil a not come againe,
    No, no, he is dead, goe to thy death bed,
    He neuer will come againe.
    2945His beard was as white as snow,
    Flaxen was his pole,
    He is gone, he is gone, and we cast away mone,
    God a mercy on his soule,
    and of all Christians soules,
    2950God buy you.
    Laer. Doe you this ô God.
    King. Laertes, I must commune with your griefe,
    Or you deny me right, goe but apart,