Page 353 - Shakespeare - Vol. 3

And not have strew’d thy grave.

LAERTES
O, treble woe
Fall ten times treble on that cursed head [240]
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.
Leaps in the grave.
Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead,

Till of this flat a mountain you have made [245]
T’o’ertop old Pelion or the skyish head
Of blue Olympus.

HAMLET
What is he whose grief
Bears such an emphasis, whose phrase of sorrow

Conjures the wand’ring stars and makes them stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, [250]
Hamlet the Dane.

LAERTES
[grappling with him] The devil take thy soul!

HAMLET
Thou pray’st not well.

I prithee take thy fingers from my throat,
For though I am not splenative and rash,
Yet have I in me something dangerous, [255]
Which let thy wiseness fear. Hold off thy hand.

KING
Pluck them asunder.

QUEEN
Hamlet! Hamlet!