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O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father’s death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions. First, her father slain; Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Of his own just remove; the people muddied, Thick, and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers For good Polonius’ death; and we have done but greenly In hugger-mugger to inter him. Poor Ophelia Divided from herself and her fair judgement, 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 Gives 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? GENTLEMAN. 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. LAERTES. Where is this king?—Sirs, stand you all without. Danes. No, let’s come in. LAERTES. I pray you, give me leave. DANES. We will, we will. [ They retire without the door. ] LAERTES. I thank you. Keep the door. O thou vile king, Give me my father. QUEEN. Calmly, good Laertes. LAERTES. 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.