the royal bed of Denmark be
A couch for luxury[113] and damned incest.
But, howsoever thou pursu'st this act,
Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive
Against thy mother aught: leave her to Heaven,
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once!
The glow-worm shows the matin to be near,
And 'gins to pale his ineffectual fire:[114]
Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me.

[_Exit_, L.H.]

_Ham._ Hold, hold, my heart;
And you, my sinews, grow not instant old,
But bear me stiffly up.--Remember thee!
Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe.[115] Remember thee!
Yea, from the table of my memory
I'll wipe away all forms, all pressures past,[116]
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmix'd with baser matter: yes, by heaven,
I have sworn't.

_Hor._ (_Without._) My lord, my lord,----

_Mar._ (_Without._) Lord Hamlet,----

_Hor._ (_Without._) Heaven secure him!

_Ham._ So be it!

_Mar._ (_Without._) Illo, ho, ho, my lord!

_Ham._ Hillo, ho, ho, boy! come, bird, come.[117]

_Enter_ HORATIO _and_ MARCELLUS (L.H.U.E.)

_Mar._ (R.) How is't, my noble lord?

_Hor._ (L.) What news, my lord?

_Ham._ (C.) O, wonderful!

_Hor._ Good my lord, tell it.

_Ham._ No;
You will reveal it.

_Hor._ Not I, my lord, by heaven.

_Mar._ Nor I, my lord.

_Ham._ How say you, then; would heart of man once think it?
But you'll be secret?--

_Hor._}
} Ay, by heaven, my lord.
_Mar._}

_Ham._ There's ne'er a villain, dwelling in all Denmark--
But he's an arrant knave.[118]

_Hor._ There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave
To tell us this.

_Ham._ Why, right; you are in the right;
And so, without more circumstance at all,
I hold it fit that we shake hands, and part:
You as your business and desire shall point you,
For every man hath business and desire,
Such as it is;--and, for my own poor part,
Look you, I will go pray.

_Hor._ These are but wild and whirling words,[119] my lord.

_Ham._ I am sorry they offend you, heartily.

_Hor._ There's no offence, my lord.

_Ham._ Yes, by Saint Patrick,[120] but there is, Horatio,