In hugger-mugger to inter him:  poor Ophelia
Divided from herself and her fair judgment,
Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts: 
Last, and as much containing as all these,
Her brother is in secret come from France;
Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds,
And wants not buzzers to infect his ear
With pestilent speeches of his father’s death;
Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d,
Will nothing stick our person to arraign
In ear and ear.  O my dear Gertrude, this,
Like to a murdering piece, in many places
Give, me superfluous death.

[A noise within.]

Queen. 
Alack, what noise is this?

King. 
Where are my Switzers? let them guard the door.

[Enter a Gentleman.]

What is the matter?

Gent. 
Save yourself, my lord: 
The ocean, overpeering of his list,
Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste
Than young Laertes, in a riotous head,
O’erbears your offices.  The rabble call him lord;
And, as the world were now but to begin,
Antiquity forgot, custom not known,
The ratifiers and props of every word,
They cry ‘Choose we!  Laertes shall be king!’
Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds,
‘Laertes shall be king!  Laertes king!’

Queen. 
How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! 
O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs!

[A noise within.]

King. 
The doors are broke.

[Enter Laertes, armed; Danes following.]

Laer. 
Where is this king?—­Sirs, stand you all without.

Danes. 
No, let’s come in.

Laer. 
I pray you, give me leave.

Danes. 
We will, we will.

[They retire without the door.]

Laer. 
I thank you:—­keep the door.—­O thou vile king,
Give me my father!

Queen. 
Calmly, good Laertes.

Laer. 
That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard;
Cries cuckold to my father; brands the harlot
Even here, between the chaste unsmirched brow
Of my true mother.

King. 
What is the cause, Laertes,
That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?—­
Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person: 
There’s such divinity doth hedge a king,
That treason can but peep to what it would,
Acts little of his will.—­Tell me, Laertes,
Why thou art thus incens’d.—­Let him go, Gertrude:—­
Speak, man.

Laer. 
Where is my father?

King. 
Dead.

Queen. 
But not by him.

King. 
Let him demand his fill.

Laer. 
How came he dead?  I’ll not be juggled with: 
To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil! 
Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! 
I dare damnation:—­to this point I stand,—­
That both the worlds, I give to negligence,
Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d
Most throughly for my father.