[HORATIO.]
Might I from all Mankind select
The Friend, I would Horatio take.
What gentler Mind could I expect?
What nobler Conquest could I make?
Was he not One who, suffering all
Yet kept his rising Anger down;
Nor felt his Spirits rise or fall,
As Fortune pleas’d to smile or frown?
He was no Pipe on which she play’d,
As her capricious Hand inclin’d; 10
But that sweet Music that he made
Rose from his own harmonious Mind.
Aspiring, yet he never gave
Himself to watch a Patron’s Will;
Tender, but yet no Beauty’s Slave,
Nor Victim to coquettish Skill.
Humble, and with high Talents born;
Prepar’d alternate Fates to try;
A Roman holding Death in Scorn;
A Chieftain learning how to die. 20
“Something too much of this!” Yet, then
How shall I thoughts like mine explain?
How inexpert a Maiden’s pen,
Since more than this I write in vain!
“But can the Friend of Denmark’s Prince
Such fond and strange Emotions give;
Whose Death or happen’d Ages since,
Or who was never known to live?”
Yes, Souls alike in Times appear
Far distant, minds of mould divine: 30
The Friend whom Hamlet priz’d so dear,
[Horatio—is a friend of mine.]