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Fell into a sadness; then into a fast;
Thence to a watch; thence into a weakness;
Thence to a lightness; and, by this declension,
Into the madness wherein now he raves,
And all we wail for.

King.
Do you think 'tis this?

Queen.
It may be, very likely.

Pol.
Hath there been such a time,--I'd fain know that--
That I have positively said ''Tis so,'
When it prov'd otherwise?

King.
Not that I know.

Pol.
Take this from this, if this be otherwise:
[Points to his head and shoulder.]
If circumstances lead me, I will find
Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed
Within the centre.

King.
How may we try it further?

Pol.
You know sometimes he walks for hours together
Here in the lobby.

Queen.
So he does indeed.

Pol.
At such a time I'll loose my daughter to him:
Be you and I behind an arras then;
Mark the encounter: if he love her not,
And he not from his reason fall'n thereon
Let me be no assistant for a state,
But keep a farm and carters.

King.
We will try it.

Queen.
But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.

Pol.
Away, I do beseech you, both away
I'll board him presently:--O, give me leave.

[Exeunt King, Queen, and Attendants.]

[Enter Hamlet, reading.]

How does my good Lord Hamlet?

Ham.
Well, God-a-mercy.

Pol.
Do you know me, my lord?

Ham.
Excellent well; you're a fishmonger.

Pol.
Not I, my lord.

Ham.
Then I would you were so honest a man.

Pol.
Honest, my lord!

Ham.
Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man
picked out of ten thousand.

Pol.
That's very true, my lord.

Ham.
For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god-kissing
carrion,--Have you a daughter?

Pol.
I have, my lord.

Ham.
Let her not walk i' the sun: conception is a blessing, but not
as your daughter may conceive:--friend, look to't.

Pol.
How say you by that?--[Aside.] Still harping on my daughter:--yet
he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger: he is far
gone, far gone: and truly in my youth I suffered much extremity
for love; very near this. I'll speak to him again.--What do you
read, my lord?

Ham.
Words, words, words.

Pol.
What is the matter, my lord?

Ham.
Between who?

Pol.
I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.

Ham.
Slanders, sir: for the satirical slave says here that old men
have grey beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes
purging thick amber and plum-tree gum; and that they have a
plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams: all which,
sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it
not honesty to have it thus set down; for you yourself, sir,
should be old as I am, if, like a crab, you could go backward.

Pol.
[Aside.] Though this be madness, yet there is a method in't.--
Will you walk out of the air, my lord?

Ham.
Into my grave?

Pol.
Indeed, that is out o' the air.

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