Page:Hamlet (1917) Yale.djvu/148

136

Laer. O! treble woe

Fall ten times treble on that cursed head

Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense

Depriv'd thee of. Hold off the earth awhile,

Till I have caught her once more in mine arms.

Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead,

Till of this flat a mountain you have made,

To o'er-top old Pelion or the skyish head

Of blue Olympus.

Ham. [Advancing.] What is he whose grief

Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow

Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand

Like wonder-wounded hearers? this is I,

Hamlet the Dane.

Laer. The devil take thy soul!

[Grapples with him.]

Ham. Thou pray'st not well.

I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat;

For though I am not splenetive and rash

Yet have I in me something dangerous,

Which let thy wisdom fear. Away thy hand!

King. Pluck them asunder.

Queen. Hamlet! Hamlet!

All. Gentlemen,—

Hor. Good my lord, be quiet.

[The Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave.]

Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme

Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

Queen. O my son! what theme?

 272 ingenious: delicately sensitive

277 Pelion; cf. n.

280 wandering stars: planets

285 splenetive: quick-tempered

