An Unforseen Passing

AN UNFORSEEN PASSING

We, dear friends, are gathered here this morn to remember a man who hath been the model of gentry. Not only was he a good man but also a good father and husband. He spoke never shrewdly but always with care, as though he hath been to the manner born. He, himself was wise and gave wise counsel to many. Including myself, on more than one occasion. He doth hath no vicious mole of nature, at most, no more than any other man. When inquir'd as to his nature, he was always remember'd "As of a man faithful and honourable".

He was eager and this eagerness hath been the cause of his passing in such a manner which may confound us all. He was found lending an ear to close conversation between the queen and her son. In those chambers he hid himself, behind the arras in the queen's chamber and was killed, ay killed, while unknown to both the queen and her son of his identity, he was slain. He was killed as Julius Caesar was killed i' the capitol by none other than Brutus himself. 'Tis a tragedy that this very scene be enacted by my father at the University of his Youth. My father was not himself however, at the moment of his passing. For moments before, someone, and I know not who, had clearly assayed him from fashion of himself and his senses. Moreover that he would not have allowed himself entry to the queen's chambers of his own will. He had more propriety than to fall to such behaviours in his old age.

The abstracts and very brief chronicles of my dear fathers life include his studies at the University, his duty as counsellor and Lord chamberlain to the king and thereby the kingdom. These abstracts and brief chronicles also include the sanctified and pious bonds of marriage between himself and his dear wife, who hath already journeyed to the world beyond before him.

He is survived by me, his son, Layertes and my dear sister, his daughter, Ophelia.

Ophelia [sings]:"He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone;

At his head a grass-green turf,

At his heels a stone.

White his shroud as the mountain snow.

Larded with sweet flowers;

Which bewept to the grave did go

With true-love showers.

And will a'not come again?

And will a'not come again?

No, no, he is dead,

He will never come again.

He is gone, he is gone,

And we cast away moan:

God ha' mercy on his soul!