Queen
Alack, what noise is this?
King
Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door.
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 officers. 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
O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs!