Markov: Hamlet

The Tragedie of HAMLET, Prince of Denmarke Hor. I warrant you it will Ham. Ha's this fell Sergeant deathIs strick'd in his Arrest) oh I could tell you Ham. My fate cries out,And makes a blister there. Makes marriage vowesAs false as Dicers Oathes. Oh such a deed,As from the weeke,What might be the Pate of a Polititian which this Asse o're Offices:one that could circumuent God, might it not? Hor. I, my Lord, the opposition of your pratlings too wel enough.God has giuen you. In few, Ophelia,Doe not beleeue his tenders, as you call the Play? Ham. We shall obey, were she ten times trebble, on that cursed headWhose wicked deed, thy most Ingenious senceDepriu'd thee of. Hold off your hand thus, but vse none:My Tongue and Soule in this faire Mountaine you haue made milche the Burning eyes of Heauen Polon. Marry Ile teach you to drinke deepe, ere you depart Hor. My Lord, I will most incorrect to Heauen,And to those Thornes that in her bosome lodge,To pricke and sting her. Fare thee well at o