Though yet of Hamlet our brother's death, our memory be green...
and that it us be fitted to bear our heart in grief...
and our whole Kingdom to be contracted in one brow of woe.
Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature...
that we think of him together with remembrance of ourselves.
Therefore, our sometime sister, now our Queen.
The imperial jointress to this warlike state.
Have we, as 'twere, with a defeated joy...
with an auspicious and dropping eye...
with mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage...
in equal scale, weighing delight and dole...
taken to wife.
Nor have we herein barred your better wisdoms...
which have freely gone with this affair along...
...for all... -Our thanks.
Now follows that you know, young Fortinbras...
holding a weak supposal of our worth...
or thinking by our brother's death our state to be out of frame...
co-leagued with this dream of his advantage...
he hath not failed to pester us with message importing...
the surrender of those lands lost by his father...
with all bond of law to our most valiant brother.
So much for him!
And now, Laertes, what "s the news with you?
The head’s not more native to the heart, the hand more instrumental...
to the mouth than is the throne of Denmark to thy father!
-What wouldst thou have, Laertes? -Your leave to return to France.
From whence, though willingly I come to show my duty in your coronation...
now I must confess, that duty done, my thoughts bend again to France.
Have you your father’s Leave? What says, Polonius?
He has, my Lord, wrung from me my slow Leave.
By laborsome petition and, at Last...
upon his will I seaIed my hard consent.
I do beseech you give him Leave to go.
Take thy fair hour, Laertes. Time be thine and thy best grace...
spend it at thy will.
My cousin Hamlet, and my son...
how is it that the clouds still hang on you?
Hamlet...
cast thy nighted color off, and look like a friend on Denmark.
Do not with thy veiled lids seek for thy noble father in the dust.
Thou known’s 'tis common.
AII that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity.
Ay, madam, it is common.
If it be, why seems it so particular with thee?
Seems, madam?
Nay, it is. I know not seems.
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother.
Nor customary suits of solemn black...
nor windy suspiration of forced breath. No.
Nor the fruitful river in the eye that can denote me truly.
These indeed seem, for they are actions that a man might play.
But I have that within which passes show these but the suits of woe.
'Tis sweet and commendable to give mourning duties to your father.
That father lost, Lost is...
and the survivor bound in filial obligation to do obsequious sorrow.
But to persevere in condolement is stubbornness. 'Tis unmanly grief.
It shows a will most incorrect to heaven.
A heart unfortified, a mind impatient.
Your intent to go back to Wittenberg is most retrograde to our desire.
And we beseech you to remain here, in the care and comfort of our eye.
Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet.
Stay with us, go not to Wittenberg.
I shall in all my best obey you, madam.
That this solid flesh would melt and dissolve itself into a dew.
That the Everlasting had not fixed his canon 'gainst self slaughter.
Oh, God...
how weary, stale and unprofitable seem to me the uses of this world.
'Tis an unweeded garden that grows to seed.
Things rank and gross in nature possess it merely.
That it should come to this l But 2 months dead, nay not so much, not 2.
So excellent a King, that was to this...
Hyperion to a satyr.
So loving to my mother that winds could not visit her face too roughly.
She'd hang on him as if appetite had grown, yet within a month...
I may not think on it. Frailty, thy name is woman.
A little month...
these shoes were old with which she followed my poor father's body...
like Niobe, all tears. Why she, even she... Oh, God
A beast that wants discourse of reason would've mourned longer.
Married with my uncle, no more like my father than I to Hercules.
Within a month.
Yet the salt of the tears had left her galled eyes, she married.
Oh, wicked speed to post with such dexterity to incestuous sheets
It is not, nor it cannot, come to good...
but break my heart. For I must hold my tongue.
And what make you from Wittenberg? Marcella...
-My good lord. -I’m very glad to see you.
Good evening, sir.
-What make you from Wittenberg? -Truant disposition, good my Lord.
-What is your affair in Elsinore? -I came for your father’s funeral.
Do not mock me, fellow student. It was for my mother’s wedding.
-Indeed, it followed hard upon. -Thrift, thrift, Horatio.
The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish for the marriage tables.
Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven or ever I had seen that day!
My father! Methinks I see my father.
Where, my Lord?
In my mind’s eye.
-I saw him once. A goodly King. -He was a man.
Take him for all and all, I shall not see his like again.
I think I saw him...
...yester night. -Saw? Who?
My Lord the King, your father.
The King, my father?
Season your admiration for a while with an attent ear...
while I deliver upon witness of this gentleman this marvel to you.
In the dead waste of the middle of the night, the apparition comes.
-Where was this? -'pon the platform, where we watched.
'Tis here.
-But did you not speak to it? -My Lord, I did...
but answer made it none.
Yet me thought it lifted up its head and addressed itself to motion...
Like as it would speak.
Stay, illusion...
if thou hast any sound or use of voice, speak to me.
It is offended.
If there be any good thing to be done, that may to thee do ease...
and grace to me, speak to me.
Speak! Speak!
I charge thee speak!
-'Tis very strange. -As I do live, my Lord, 'tis true.
And we did think it writ down in our duty to let you know of it.
Indeed, indeed, but this troubles me.
-Hold you the watch again tonight? -I do, my Lord.
-What looked he? Frowningly? -More in sorrow than in anger.
-And fixed his eyes upon you? -Most constantly.
-I would I had been there. -It would have much amazed you.
I"II watch tonight. I"II speak to it though hell should hold my peace.
And I pray you all, if you have hitherto concealed this sight...
Let it be tenable in your silence. Whatever hapth, give it no tongue.
I will require your loves. So fare you well.
Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve, I'II visit you.
-Our duty to your honor. -Your love as mine to you. Farewell.
Would the night were come.
Till then, sit still, my soul
Foul deeds will rise though all the earth o'erwhelm them to men's eyes.
Perhaps he loves you now...
and now no soil, no cautel doth besmirch the virtue of his wills.
But you must fear.
His virtue weighted...
his will is not his own, for he himseIf is subject to his birth.
He may not, as unvalued persons do, carve for himself.
On his choice depends the health and safety of this whole state.
His choice’s circumscribed unto that body whereof he’s the head.
If he says he Loves you, it fits your wisdom so far to believe it...
as he in his particular act and place may give his saying deed...
which is no further than the main voice of Denmark goes withal.
Then weight what loss your honor may sustain if with too...
credent ear you list his songs.
Or lose your heart.
Or your chaste treasure, open to his unmastered importunity.
Fear it, Ophelia.
Fear it, my dear sister.
Keep you in the rear of your affection, out of the danger of desire.
Best safety lies in fear.
Youth to itself rebels though none else near.
I shall the effect of this lesson keep, as watchman to my heart.
But good my brother, do not, as some ungracious pastors do...
show me the steep and thorny way to heaven...
while Like a libertine himself the path of dalliance treads...
and recks not his own creed.
Fear me not.
I stay too long.
A double blessing is a double grace.
Occasion smiles upon a second leave.
Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard for shame.
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail and you are stayed for?
My blessing with thee!
And these few precepts in thy memory look thou character.
Give thy thoughts no tongue...
nor any unproportional thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried...
grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel.
But do not dull thy palm with each new-hatched, unpledged comrade.
Beware of entrance to a quarrel...
but being in it, bear't that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.
Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy...
but not expressed in fancy.
Rich, not gaudy...
for the apparel oft proclaims the man.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be...
for loan oft loses both itself and friend.
This above all: to thine own self be true...
and it must follow, as the night the day...
thou canst not then be false to any man.
-I humbly take my Leave, my Lord. -The time invites you. Go!
Farewell, Ophelia.
Remember well what I have said to you.
Angels and ministers of grace, defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned...
bring with thee airs of heaven or blasts from hell.
Thou coms't in such a questionable shape that I'll speak to thee.
Mark me.
I will.
My hour is almost come...
when I to sulfurous and tormenting flames must render up myself.
-Alas, poor ghost! -Pity me not.
But lend thy serious hearing to what I shall unfold.
Speak. I am bound to hear.
I am thy father’s spirit...
doomed for a certain term to walk the night, and for the day...
confined to fast in fires till the crimes done in my days are purged away.
But that I am forbid to tell the secrets of my prison house...
I could a tale unfold whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul...
freeze thy young blood...
make thy two eyes Like stars start from their spheres...
thy knotted locks to part and each particular hair stand on end...
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.
But this eternal blazon must not be the ears of flesh and blood. List!
-If thou did'st thy father Love... -Oh, God!
...revenge his most unnatural murder. -Murder?
Murder most foul, as in the best it is, but this most foul, strange...
and unnatural.
Now...
Hamlet, hear.
'Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard, a serpent stung me.
The ear of Denmark is by a forged process of my death rankly abused.
But know the serpent that stung thy father's life now wears his crown.
-My uncle! -Ay!
That incestuous, adulterate beast, with witchcraft of his wit...
with traitorous and wicked gifts that have the power so to seduce...
won to his shameful lust the will of my most seeming-virtuous Queen.
Oh, Hamlet, what a falling off was there for me...
whose Love went hand in hand with the vow I made to her in marriage.
And to decline upon a wretch whose gifts were poor to those of mine.
But soft...
methinks I scent the morning air. Brief Let me be.
Sleeping within my orchard, my custom always of the afternoon...
on my secure hour, thy uncle stole with juice of hebona in a vial...
and in the porches of my ears did pour the leprous distillment...
whose effect holds such an enmity with blood of man...
that as quicksilver courses through the natural gates of the body...
with vigor it doth poset and cordlike eager droppings into milk...
the thin and wholesome blood.
So did it mine.
Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand...
unhouseled, disappointed, unanneled. No reckoning made...
but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.
Oh, horrible, horrible, most horrible!
If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not.
Let not the bed of Denmark be a couch for luxury and damned incest.
But, howsoever thou pursues this act, taint not thy mind...
nor Let thy soul contrive against thy mother.
Leave her to heaven...
and to the thorns that in her bosom lodge, to prick and sting her.
Fare thee will at once...
remember me!
The time is out of joint.
Oh, cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right.
-My Lord... -What news, my Lord?
Oh, day and night, but this is wondrous strange!
And therefore as a stranger give him welcome.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio...
than are dreamt of in our philosophy.
My fate cries out.
Hello and welcome to Moviephone...
brought to you by The New York Times and American Express.
If you know the name of the movie you'd like to see, press 1.
What is it, Ophelia, that he hath sent you?
So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.
Merry, well be thought. What is between you?
Give me up the truth.
My Lord, he hath of late paid many tenders of his affection to me.
Affection!
Think yourself a baby that you have taken these tenders for true pay...
which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly.
My Lord, he hath importuned me with Love in honorable fashion.
When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul doth Lend the tongue vows.
These blazes, daughter, getting more light than heat...
extinct in both...
even in their promise as it is a making, you must not take for fire.
I do not know, my lord, what I should think.
From this time...
be something scanter of your maiden presence.
Set your entreatments at a higher rate...
than a command to parley.
For Lord Hamlet, believe in him so much that he is young...
and with a larger tether may he walk than may be given you.
Do not believe his vows!
I would not, in plain terms...
from this time forth...
have you so slander any moment leisure...
as to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.
Look to it. I charge you.
We have the word "to be"...
but what I propose is the word “to inter-be".
Because it is not possible to be alone, to be by yourself.
You need other people in order to be.
You need other beings in other to be.
Not only you need father, mother, but also uncle...
brother, sister, society, but you also need sunshine...
river, air, trees...
birds, elephants, and so on.
So it is impossible to be by yourself, alone.
You have to "inter-be" with everyone and everything else.
And, therefore, "to be" means "to inter-be".
To the celestial, and my soul's idol...
The most beautified, Ophelia...
doubt that the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move...
doubt truth to be a liar...
but never doubt my love.
To be or not to be.
To be...
Oft it chances in particular men that for some vicious mole of nature...
or by some habit that over' heavens the form of plausive manners...
that these men...
carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect...
their virtues else be they as pure as grace...
shall in the general censure take corruption...
-How goes my good Lord Hamlet? -Well, God-a-mercy.
-Do you know me, my Lord? -Very well. You’re a fishmonger.
-Not I, my Lord. -Then I would you were so honest.
-Honest, my Lord? -To be picked out of 1O thousand.
That is very true, my lord.
Have you a daughter?
-I have, my Lord. -Let her not walk in the sun.
Conception is a blessing, but as your daughter may conceive...
friend, Look to it.
How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter.
He is far gone.
And truly, in my youth, I suffered not to a love.
-Will you go out into the air? -Into my grave.
My honorable Lord, I will most humbly take my Leave of you.
You cannot take from me anything I will more willingly part withal...
except my Life.
Except my life.
My liege...
my Liege... and madam...
to expostulate what majesty should be...
what duty is, why day is day...
night night and time is time...
would nothing but to waste night, day, and time.
Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit...
and tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes...
I will be brief.
Your noble son is mad.
"Mad" call I it for to define true madness. What is it but...
to be nothing else but mad?
-But Let that go. -More matter, less art.
Madam, I swear I use no art at all.
That he is mad 'tis true. 'Tis true, 'tis pity...
and pity 'tis 'tis true. A foolish figure...
but farewell it for I use no art.
Mad Let us grant him then...
now remains for us to find out...
the cause of this effect, or rather say, the cause of this defect...
for this effect defective comes by cause.
Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.
Perpend, I have a daughter...
have while she is mine, who, in her duty and obedience, mark...
have given me this.
Gather now and surmise.
Came this from Hamlet to her?
""I have no art to reckon my groans. I Love the best every thought of...
thine ever more whist this machine is to him...
Hamlet.""
This in obedience hast my daughter shown me...
and more above hath his solicitings as they fell out by...
time, by means and place.
AII given to mine ear.
How hath she received his Love?
What do you think of me?
As of a man faithful and honorable.
I would fain prove so. But what might you think...
when I had seen this hot love on the wing...
as I perceived it, I must tell you that, before my daughter told me...
what might you or my dear majesty here think...
if I had Looked upon this love with idée sight?
What might you think?
No, I went round to work and my young mistress thus I did bespeak...
""Lord Hamlet is a prince out of thy star.
This must not be.""
She took the fruits of my advice...
and he repelled, a short tale to make...
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 mourn for.
-Do you think 'tis this? -It may be. Very Like.
Take this from this, if this be otherwise.
If circumstances lead me, I will find where truth is hid...
though it were hid indeed within the center.
To be or not to be, that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler to suffer the arrows of outrageous fortune...
or take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing, end them.
To die...
to sleep...
no more...
and by a sleep to say we end the thousand natural shocks...
the flesh is heir to.
'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
To die, to sleep...
a chance to dream.
There’s the rub...
for in that sleep of death what dreams may come...
when we have shuffled off this mortal coil must give us pause.
There’s the respect...
that makes calamity of so Long a Life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time...
the proud man’s contumely...
the insolence of office, the law's delay...
the pangs of disprized Love...
when he himself might his own quietus make with a bare bodkin?
Who would fordless bear to grunt and sweat under a weary Life...
were it not the dread of something after death...
the undiscovered country to whose bourn no traveler returns...
and puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have...
than fly to others we not know of.
And thus conscience does make cowards of us all.
And thus the native hue of resolution...
is sick lied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
And enterprises of great pitch and moment in this regard...
their currents turn awry...
and Lose the name of action.
My excellent good friends!
How dost thou, Guildenstern?
Rosencrantz!
Oh, good lads. How do you both?
-As the indifferent children of earth. -Happy in that we’re not overhappy.
On fortune’s cap, we are not the very button.
-Nor the soles of her shoes? -Neither, my Lord.
What news?
None, my Lord. But that the world’s grown honest.
Then doomsday is near.
But your news is not true. Let me question more in particular.
What have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of fortune...
that she has sent you to prison hither?
-Prison, my Lord? -Denmark is a prison.
-Then the world is one. -In which there are many dungeons.
Denmark being one of the worst.
We think not... We think not so, my Lord!
'Tis none to you. There’s nothing good or bad. Thinking makes it so.
To me, it is a prison.
Then your ambition makes it so. 'Tis too narrow for your mind.
Oh, God. I could be bounded in a nutshell...
and count myself King of infinite space...
were not that I have bad dreams.
-What make you here? -Visit you, my Lord!
No other occasion.
Can you by no drift of conference get why he puts on this confusion...
grating all his days of quiet with turbulent and dangerous lunacy?
He does confess he feels himself distracted.
but for what cause he will by no means speak...
nor do we find him forward to be sounded...
but madness keeps aloof when we bring him to confess his state.
-Did he receive you well? -Most like a gentleman...
but with much forcing of his disposition.
Niggard of question, but of our demands most free in his reply.
Thank you, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.
Thank you, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz.
We lay our service freely at your feet.
Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I.
Is it not monstruous that this player here...
but in a fiction, in a dream of passion...
could force his soul so to his own conceit...
that from her working all his visage waned ...
his whole function sulting with forms to his conceit?
And all for nothing?
What would he do had he the motive and cue for passion that I have?
I have heard that guilty creatures sitting at a play...
have by the very cunning of the scene been struck so to the soul...
that presently they have proclaimed their male factions.
For murder, though it hath no tongue...
will speak with most miraculous organ.
I know my course.
The spirit that I have seen may be a devil...
and the devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape, yea.
And perhaps out of my weakness and my melancholy abuses me to damn me.
I’ll have grounds more relative than this.
The play is the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.
'Tis most true and he beseeched me...
to entreat your majesties to hear and see the matter.
With all my heart. And it doth content me to hear him so inclined.
Gentlemen, give him a further edge and drive his purpose into these delights.
-We shall, my lord! -And for your part, Ophelia...
I wish that your beauties be the happy cause of Hamlet "s wildness.
I also hope that your virtues will bring him to his wonted way again.
-How does your honor these days? -I humbly thank you. Well.
I have remembrances of yours I have longed Long to redeliver.
I pray you, receive them.
No, not I.
-I never gave you aught. -Lord, you know right well you did.
And with words of so sweet breath composed that made them more rich.
Their perfume lost, take them again.
For to the noble mind rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
There, my Lord.
-Are you honest? -My Lord?
-Are you fair? -What means your lordship?
I did Love you once.
-Indeed, you made me believe so. -You should not have believed me.
I loved you not.
I was the more deceived.
Get thee to a nunnery.
Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?
I am myself indifferent honest and yet I could accuse me...
of more things that it were better my mother had not borne me.
I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious...
with more offenses at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in...
imagination to give them shape or time to act them in.
What should such fellows as I do, crawling between earth and heaven?
We’re errant knaves all, believe none of us.
Where is thy father?
Shut the doors upon him that he may play the fool in his own house!
Get thee to a nunnery.
Two messages.
If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry...
be thou as chaste as ice, thou shall not escape calumny.
Get thee to a nunnery, Go, Farewell.
I say we shall have no more marriage,
Those that are married already, all but one, shall live.
The rest shall keep as they are.
To a nunnery, go!
Give me a man that's not passion's slave. I'II wear him in my heart...
ay in my heart of heart, as I do thee.
Tonight, one scene comes near the circumstances...
of which I have told thee of my father’s death. I prithee...
when thou seest that act afoot, observe...
my uncle. If his occulted guilt do not itself unkennel in one speech...
it is a damned ghost we have seen.
Give him heedful note.
Mine eyes'll rivet to his face and after we'll our judgements join.
Well, my Lord.
Get you a place. I must be idée.
Hamlet, come sit by me.
Oh, no, mother. Here's metal more attractive.
-Lady, shall I sit in your lap? -No, my Lord.
I mean, my head upon your Lap.
-Ay, my Lord. -Think you I meant country matters?
I thinking nothing, my Lord.
That's a fare thought to lie between a maid's legs.
-What is, my Lord? -Nothing.
You are merry, my Lord.
Oh, God. What should a man do but be merry?
Look how cheerful my mother looks and my father died within 2 hours.
Nay, 'tis twice two months, my Lord.
So Long? Let the devil wear black for I'II have a suit of sables.
Oh, heavens! Died 2 months ago and not forgotten yet.
Then a man’s memory may outlive his Life more than hair a year.
How fair is our cousin Hamlet?
Excellent.
-What means this, my lord? -It means mischief.
My Lord?
-My Lord? -Give me some light!
-Cry you with false fire? -Away!
My Lord!
Oh, good Horatio...
I"II take the ghost "s word for a thousand pounds. Didst perceive?
-Very well, my Lord. -Upon the poisoning?
I did well note it.
Some must watch, while some must sleep.
Thus runs the world away.
Good! My Lord.
Hello, this is Eartha Kltt. Cats have nine lives...
but unfortunately you have only one.
So buckle your seat belt, for safety.
Good my Lord, vouchsafe me a word with you.
-The King, sir... -Ay, sir, what of him?
-Is in his retirement, distempered. -With drink?
Good my Lord, try to put your discourse into some frame.
I’m tame. Pronounce.
The Queen, your mother, in most great affliction of spirit...
has sent me to you.
You’re welcome.
Nay, good my Lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed.
-Please, make a wholesome answer. -I cannot.
-What? -Make you a wholesome answer.
My wit "s diseased.
Now is the very witching time of night...
when churchyards yawn and hell breathes out contagion into the world.
Now I could drink hot blood...
and do such bitter business as the day would quake to look on.
I like him not...
nor is it safe to let his madness range. Therefore prepare you.
I your commission will dispatch and he to England shall along with you.
We will ourselves provide. Most holy and religious fear it is...
to keep those many bodies safe that live and feed upon your majesty.
Never alone did the King sigh but with a general groan.
Arm you, I pray you to this speedy voyage.
We will fetters put about this fear which now goes too free-footed.
We will haste us.
My offense is rank.
It smells to heaven...
it has the primal eldest curse upon it.
What if this hand were thicker than itself with brother’s blood?
Is there not rain enough in the heavens to wash it white as snow?
Forgive me my foul murder.
That cannot be. I still possess the effects for which I did the murder.
My crown, mine own ambition...
my Queen.
What then? What rests?
Try what repentance can. What can it not?
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
Look you lay home to him.
Tell him that his pranks are too broad to bear with...
and that Your Grace...
hath screened and stood between much heat and him.
Fear me not.
Mother!
I'll shroud me in here. Pray you, be round with him.
Now, Mother, what "s the matter?
Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.
Mother, you have my father much offended.
-You answer with and idle tongue! -You question with a wicked tongue!
-Have you forgot me? -No, not so. You are the Queen...
your husband’s brother’s wife and, would it were not so, my mother!
Then I"II set those to you that can speak!
Come, come, sit you down!
You shall not budge, you go not, till I set you up a glass...
where you may see the inmost part of you!
What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me? Help!
-Help! -Help!
What hast thou done?
Nay, I know not.
Is it the King?
Oh, what a rash and bloody deed is this?
Almost as bad, good mother...
as kill a King and marry with his brother.
-Kill a King? -Ay, lady, it was my word.
Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell.
I took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune.
Thou find'st to be too busy in some danger.
Leave wringing of your hands. Peace! Sit you down...
and Let me wring your heart, if it be made of penetrable stuff.
-What have I done? -Have you eyes?
You cannot call it love for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame.
It's humble and waits upon the judgement.
Oh, shame! Where is thy blush?
To live in the rank sweat of an enseamed bed!
Honeying and making love over the nasty sty!
-No more! -God! A kept villain, a murderer...
a King of shreds and patches!
No more...
How would you, gracious figure?
-Do not come your tardy son to chide. -Alas, he’s mad.
Do not forget. This visitation is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.
But look. Amazement on thy mother sits.
Step between her and her fighting soul!
Speak to her, Hamlet!
How is it with you, Lady?
-Where on do you look? -On him! Look how pale he glares!
Do not Look upon me!
To whom do you speak this?
-Do you see nothing there? -Nothing at all.
This is the very coinage of your brain.
My pulse as yours doth keep time and makes as healthful music.
It is not madness that I have uttered. Mother...
for Love of grace, confess yourself to heaven...
repent what is past, avoid what is to come...
do not spread the compost on the weeds to make them ranker.
Oh, Hamlet...
thou hast cleft my heart in twain.
Then throw away the worser part of it and Live purer with the other half.
Good night.
For the same lord, I do repent...
but heaven hath pleased it so to punish me with this...
and this with me.
I will bestow him and answer well the death I gave him.
One word more, good Lady.
-What shall I do? -By no means, that I bid you do...
let that bloat King tempt you again to bed...
pinch wanton on your cheek, call you his mouse...
and for a pair of reechy kisses, make you ravel all this matter out.
That I essentially am not in madness, but mad in craft.
Be thou assured.
If words are made of breath, and breath of life...
I have no Life to breathe what thou hast said to me.
I must to England, you know that.
Alack, I had forgotten.
'Tis so concluded on.
I'll lug the guts into the neighbor room. Mother...
good night.
Indeed, this counselor is now most still...
most silent, and most grave.
Who was in Life a foolish prating knave.
Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you.
Good night, mother.
What have you done, my lord, with the dead body?
Compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis kin.
Tell us where 'tis that we may take it thence and bear it to the chapel.
-Do not believe it. -Believe what?
That I can keep your counsel and not my own.
Besides, to be demanded of by a sponge...
-Take you me for a sponge? -Ay, sir.
One that soaks up the King's countenance, awards, authorities.
My Lord, you must tell us where the body is and go with us to the King.
The body is with the King, but the King is not with the body.
The King is a thing.
-A thing, my Lord? -Of nothing.
How now, what hath befallen?
Where the dead body is bestowed, my Lord...
we cannot get from him.
Now, Hamlet, where is Polonius?
At supper.
At supper? Where?
Not where he eats, but where he’s eaten.
A certain convocation of politic worms are eating at him.
We fat all creatures else to fat us, we fat ourselves for maggots.
Your fat King and your lean beggar is but variable service.
Two dishes, but to one table.
That "s the end.
Where is Polonius?
In heaven. Send thither to see.
If your messenger find him not there, seek him in the other place yourself.
But indeed, if you find him not within the month...
you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby.
-Go seek him there. -He will stay till you come.
Hamlet, this deed...
For thine special safety, which we do tender...
as we grieve for that which thou hast done, must send thee hence...
with fiery quickness. Therefore prepare thyself.
Bark’s ready and the wind’s at help. Thy associates tend and everything...
...is bent for England. -For England?
-Ay, Hamlet. -Good.
So it is. If thou knowest our purposes.
Farewell, my mother.
-Thy loving father, Hamlet. -My mother.
Father and mother is man and wife, man and wife is one flesh...
and so my mother.
For everything is sealed and done that leans on the affair.
The present death of Hamlet.
Do it, England. For like the hectic in my blood he rages...
and thou must cure me.
Good sir...
whose powers are these?
The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras.
How all occasions do inform against me...
and spur my dull revenge;
What is a man is the chief good and market of his time...
be but to sleep and feed?
A beast...
no more.
He that made us with discourse, looking before and after gave us not...
that capability and godlike reason to fust in us unused.
No. Whether it's bestial oblivion...
or some craven scruple of thinking too precisely on the event...
a thought which, quartered, hath but 1 part wisdom ever 3 parts coward.
I do not know why yet I Live...
to say: "this thing's to do".
Sith I have the cause, and means...
and strength and will to do it.
Examples gross as earth exhort me.
Righty to be great...
is not to stir without great argument, but greatly to find quarrel...
in a straw when honor is at the stake.
How stand I then...
that have a father killed...
a mother stained...
excitements of my reason and my blood...
and Let all sleep.
From this time forth, my thoughts be bloody...
or be nothing worth.
To my sick soul, as sin's true nature is...
each joy seems prologue to some great amiss.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt.
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?
How now, Ophelia?
How should I your true love know from another one?
-Alas, what imports this song? -What say you?
He is dead and gone, lady. Dead and gone!
At his head, a grass green turf. At his heels, a stone.
-Nay, but, Ophelia... -Pray you mark!
My Lord, alas, Look here.
-How do you do, pretty Lady? -Let "s have no more words of this.
But when they ask you what it means, say you this...
Up he rose and donned his clothes and dug the chamber door.
Let in the maze and out the maze, never departed more!
I hope all will be well. We must be patient...
but I cannot choose but to weep...
to think they lay him in the cold ground.
My brother will know of this!
And so I thank you for your good council. Good night.
Good night, sweet ladies, good night! Good night!
How long hath she been thus?
Calmly, good Laertes.
That drop of blood that "s calm proclaims me bastard...
cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot even here...
between the unsmirched brow of my true mother!
What "s the cause that thy rebellion looks so giantlike? Let him go!
Do not fear our person. There's such divinity doth hedge a King.
Where is my father?
-Dead. -But not by him.
How came he dead?
I'll not be juggled with.
-No, Laertes! -To hell allegiance!
Conscience and grace to the profoundest pit!
I dare damnation!
Let come what comes, only I will be revenged most truly for my father.
Who shall stay you?
My will, not all the world's.
For my means I shall husband them so well they shall go foul with little.
Ay, then, thou speaks like a good child and a true gentleman.
I am guiltless of your father's death and sensibly in grief for it!
It shall to your level judgement peer, as day doth to your eye.
Will he not come again?
No, no, he’s dead.
Go to thy death bed. He will never come again.
Oh, rose of May, dear maid...
kind sister, sweet Ophelia.
Hadst thou thy wits and persuaded revenge, it could not move thus.
How’s it possible a maid’s wits shouId be as mortal as an old man's life?
There’s rosemary, that's for remembrances.
I pray you, Love, remember.
And there’s pansies, that's for thoughts.
There’s fennel for you, and columbines.
And there’s rue for you. And some for me, too.
We may call it ""herb of grace of Sundays"".
You must wear your rue with a difference.
There’s a daisy!
I would give you violets, but they withered all when my father died.
They say he came to a good end.
Where the offense is let the great ax fall.
Now must your conscience my acquitance seal...
and you must put me in your heart for friend.
Sith you heard that he which hath your noble father slain...
pursued my Life.
Tell me why you proceeded not against these feats so...
crimeful and capital in nature?
The Queen, his mother, lives almost by his looks.
And for myself, my virtue or my plague, I know not which...
she’s so conjunctive to me that as a star moves not but in his sphere...
I could not but by her.
So, I have a noble father lost, a sister...
driven to desperate terms whose worth, if praises me bring back...
stood challenger on mount of all the age for her perfections.
But my revenge will come.
Break not your sleeps for that.
You must not think that we are made of stuff so fiat and dull...
that we can Let our beard be shook with danger and think it pastime.
You shortly shall hear more.
I loved your father, and we love yourself.
And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine...
From Hamlet.
Laertes, you shall hear.
""High and mighty, you shall know I am set naked on your Kingdom.
Tomorrow shall I beg your leave to your Kingly eyes...
where I shall asking your pardon, there unto recount the occasion...
of my sudden and more strange return. Hamlet.""
Naked...
And in a postscript he says "alone". Can you devise me?
I’m lost in it, my Lord...
but Let him come.
It warms the very sickness of my heart.
If he be now returned...
I shall work him to an exploit now ripe in my device...
under the which he shall not choose but fall.
And for his death no wind of blame shall breathe.
Not even his mother shall uncharge the practice and call it accident.
Laertes, was your father dear to you?
Or are you Like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?
Why ask you this, my Lord?
There Live within the flame of love a kind of wick that will abate it.
And nothing is as a like goodness still.
For goodness, growing to a pleurisy, dies in its own too much.
That we would do, we should do when we would...
for that would changes and hath abatements and delays...
as many as there are tongues, or hands or accidents.
And then this "should" is like a spendthrift sigh...
that hurts by easing.
But to the quick of the ulcer.
What wouldest thou undertake to show yourself your father’s son in deed...
more than in word?
One woe doth tread upon another's heels, so fast they follow.
Your sister is drowned, Laertes.
Drowned?
Drowned.
Not to have strewed thy grave.
And but that great command o'ersway the order...
she should in ground unsanctified have lodged till the last trumpet.
-Must there no more be done? -No more be done.
Lay her in the earth...
...and from her unpolluted flesh... -Ophelia!
...may violets spring.
Hold off the earth till I’ve caught her one more time in mine arms.
Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead...
until of this flat you have a mountain made!
What is he whose grief bears such an emphasis...
whose sorrow conjures the stars and makes them stand Like wondered ears?
-The devil take thy soul! -I loved Ophelia.
4O thousand brothers with all their Love cannot make up my sum!
What wilt thou do for her? Show me what thou wilt do!
Wilt thou weep, fight, tear thyself, drink up easel...
eat a crocodile?
Dost thou come here to whine?
Pluck them asunder.
What is the reason you use me thus?
I Loved you ever.
But it doth not matter.
In my heart there was a kind of fighting that would not Let me sleep.
Rashly, and praised be rashness for it, for it lets us know our indiscretions...
do sometimes serve us well when our deep plots do pall.
That should teach us there's a divinity that shapes our ends.
Rough-hew them how we will.
Will would thou hear how I did proceed?
I do beseech you.
Up from my cabin, in the dark...
groped, to unseal their grand commission...
where I found, Horatio...
an exact command.
My head should be struck off.
Here’s the commission.
Read it at more leisure.
Being thus benetted round with villainies...
I sat me down, devised a new commission, wrote it fair.
An earnest conjuration from the King...
that upon view and knowing of these contents...
he should these bearers put to sudden death.
So GuiIldenstern and Rosencrantz go to it.
They made Love to this employment. They are not near my conscience.
Their defeat does by their own insinuation grow. 'Tis dangerous...
when the baser nature comes between the pass and fell incensed points...
of mighty opposites. Does it not, think thee, he that killed my King...
and whored my mother, is it not perfect to quit him with this arm?
It must be shortly known to him what is the issue of the business.
It will be short. The interim is mine.
A man's life's no more than to say "one".
But I am very sorry, good Horatio...
that to Laertes I forgot myself.
For by the image of my cause I see the portraiture of his.
I"II court his favors.
The King, sir.
He hath wagered that in a dozen passes between you and Laertes...
he shall not exceed you 3 hits.
He hath laid on twelve nine...
and it could be an immediate trial, if you would vouchsafe an answer.
How if I answer no?
If it please His Majesty, it is the breathing time of day with me.
You'll lose, my Lord.
I do not think so.
But thou wouldst not think how ill all's here about my heart.
If your mind dislike anything, obey it.
I will forestall their repair hither, say you are not fit.
No, not a whit. We defy augury.
There’s special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now.
If it be not now, yet it will come.
The readiness is all.
Since no man has aught of what he leaves, what "s it to leave betimes?
Let be.
Hamlet, this pearl is thine.
Here’s to thy health.
Give me your pardon, sir. I've done you wrong.
But pardon it, as you are a gentleman.
This presence knows how I am punished with a sore distraction.
What I have done that might your nature, honor, and exception...
roughly awake, I here proclaim as madness.
Let my disclaiming from purposed evil free me in your generous thoughts...
that I have shot my arrow over the house...
and hurt my brother.
Give us the foils.
This is too heavy, let me see another.
This one likes me well.
-These foils are all a length? -Ay, my good Lord.
Is your skill shall, like a star in the darkest night, stick fiery off.
You mock me, sir.
No, by this hand.
Cousin Hamlet...
...you know the wager? -Very well, my Lord.
-You Laid the odds on the weaker. -I do not fear it.
I’ve seen you both. But since he is bettered, we have therefore odds.
Set me the stoups of wine upon the table.
The King drinks to Hamlet.
Come, sir.
Come, my Lord.
-Judgement? -A hit. A palpable hit.
-Well, again. -Stay!
Give me a drink.
Give him the cup.
I'll play this bout first. Set it aside a while.
Another hit. What say you?
A touch, a touch. I do confess it.
Our son shall win.
Hamlet, take my napkin. Rub thy brows.
The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet!
I pray you, pardon me.
Come...
Let me wipe thy face.
Come, Laertes!
You do but dally. I pray you pass with your best violence.
Say you so.
Come on!
Thy mother’s poisoned.
The King...
The King is to blame.
Horatio...
I am dead...
thou livest.
Report me and my cause a right to the unsatisfied.
And if thou didst ever hold me in thy heart...
absent thee from felicity awhile, and in this harsh world...
draw thy breath in pain to tell my story.
The rest is silence.
Now cracks a noble heart.
Good night...
sweet prince.
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
This quarry cries on havoc.
Oh, proud death, what feast is toward in thine eternal cell...
that thou hast so many princes at a shot...
so bloodly has struck?
The sight is dismal.
Our wills and fates do so contrary run...
that our devices still are overthrown.
Our thoughts are ours; their ends, none of our own.