which in
themselves are capable of most exquisite music, but when jangled out of
tune, or rudely handled, produce only a harsh and unpleasing sound.

Though the rough business which Hamlet had in hand, the revenging of his
father's death upon his murderer, did not suit with the playful state of
courtship, or admit of the society of so idle a passion as love now
seemed to him, yet it could not hinder but that soft thoughts of his
Ophelia would come between, and in one of these moments, when he thought
that his treatment of this gentle lady had been unreasonably harsh, he
wrote her a letter full of wild starts of passion, and in extravagant
terms, such as agreed with his supposed madness, but mixed with some
gentle touches of affection, which could not but show to this honoured
lady that a deep love for her yet lay at the bottom of his heart. He
bade her to doubt the stars were fire, and to doubt that the sun did
move, to doubt truth to be a liar, but never to doubt that he loved;
with more of such extravagant phrases. This letter Ophelia dutifully
showed to her father, and the old man thought himself bound to
communicate it to the king and queen, who from that time supposed that
the true cause of Hamlet's madness was love. And the queen wished that
the good beauties of Ophelia might be the happy cause of his wildness,
for so she hoped that her virtues might happily restore him to his
accustomed way again, to both their honours.

But Hamlet's malady lay deeper than she supposed, or than could be so
cured. His father's ghost, which he had seen, still haunted his
imagination, and the sacred injunction to revenge his murder gave him no
rest till it was accomplished. Every hour of delay seemed to him a sin,
and a violation of his father's commands. Yet how to compass the death
of the king, surrounded as he constantly was with his guards, was no
easy matter. Or if it had been, the presence of the queen, Hamlet's
mother, who was generally with the king, was a restraint upon his
purpose, which he could not break through. Besides, the very
circumstance that the usurper was his mother's husband filled him with
some remorse, and still blunted the edge of his purpose. The mere act of
putting a fellow-creature to death was in itself odious and terrible to
a disposition naturally so gentle as Hamlet's was. His very melancholy,
and the dejection of spirits he had so long been in, produced an
irresoluteness and wavering of purpose, wh