Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident. 
This world is not for aye; nor ’tis not strange
That even our loves should with our fortunes change;
For ’tis a question left us yet to prove,
Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love. 
The great man down, you mark his favourite flies,
The poor advanc’d makes friends of enemies;
And hitherto doth love on fortune tend: 
For who not needs shall never lack a friend;
And who in want a hollow friend doth try,
Directly seasons him his enemy. 
But, orderly to end where I begun,—­
Our wills and fates do so contrary run
That our devices still are overthrown;
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own: 
So think thou wilt no second husband wed;
But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.

P. Queen. 
Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light! 
Sport and repose lock from me day and night! 
To desperation turn my trust and hope! 
An anchor’s cheer in prison be my scope! 
Each opposite that blanks the face of joy
Meet what I would have well, and it destroy! 
Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife,
If, once a widow, ever I be wife!

Ham. 
If she should break it now! [To Ophelia.]

P. King. 
’Tis deeply sworn.  Sweet, leave me here awhile;
My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile
The tedious day with sleep.
[Sleeps.]

P. Queen. 
Sleep rock thy brain,
And never come mischance between us twain!

[Exit.]

Ham. 
Madam, how like you this play?

Queen. 
The lady protests too much, methinks.

Ham. 
O, but she’ll keep her word.

King. 
Have you heard the argument?  Is there no offence in’t?

Ham. 
No, no!  They do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i’ the
world.

King. 
What do you call the play?

Ham.  The Mouse-trap.  Marry, how?  Tropically.  This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna:  Gonzago is the duke’s name; his wife, Baptista:  you shall see anon; ’tis a knavish piece of work:  but what o’ that? your majesty, and we that have free souls, it touches us not:  let the gall’d jade wince; our withers are unwrung.

[Enter Lucianus.]

This is one Lucianus, nephew to the King.

Oph. 
You are a good chorus, my lord.

Ham. 
I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see
the puppets dallying.

Oph. 
You are keen, my lord, you are keen.

Ham. 
It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge.

Oph. 
Still better, and worse.

Ham.  So you must take your husbands.—­Begin, murderer; pox, leave thy damnable faces, and begin.  Come:—­’The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.’

Luc. 
Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing;
Confederate season, else no creature seeing;
Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected,
With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected,
Thy natural magic and dire property
On wholesome life usurp immediately.