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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    Not Peer Reviewed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)

    Will not peruse the foyles, so that with ease,
    Or with a little shuffling, you may choose
    A sword vnbated, and in a pace of practise
    Requite him for your Father.
    3130Laer. I will doo't,
    And for purpose, Ile annoynt my sword.
    I bought an vnction of a Mountibanck
    So mortall, that but dippe a knife in it,
    Where it drawes blood, no Cataplasme so rare,
    3135Collected from all simples that haue vertue
    Vnder the Moone, can saue the thing from death
    That is but scratcht withall, Ile tutch my point
    With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly, it may be death.
    3140King. Lets further thinke of this.
    Wey what conuenience both of time and meanes
    May fit vs to our shape if this should fayle,
    And that our drift looke through our bad performance,
    Twere better not assayd, therefore this proiect,
    3145Should haue a back or second that might hold
    If this did blast in proofe; soft let me see,
    Wee'le make a solemne wager on your cunnings,
    I hate, when in your motion you are hote and dry,
    As make your bouts more violent to that end,
    3150And that he calls for drinke, Ile haue prefard him
    A Challice for the nonce, whereon but sipping,
    If he by chaunce escape your venom'd stuck,
    Our purpose may hold there; but stay, what noyse?

    Enter Queene.
    3155Quee. One woe doth tread vpon anothers heele,
    So fast they follow; your Sisters drownd Laertes.
    Laer. Drown'd, ô where?
    Quee. There is a Willow growes ascaunt the Brooke
    That showes his horry leaues in the glassy streame,
    3160Therewith fantastique garlands did she make
    Of Crowflowers, Nettles, Daises, and long Purples
    That liberall Shepheards giue a grosser name,
    But our cull-cold maydes doe dead mens fingers call them.
    There on the pendant boughes her cronet weedes