THE ROYAL SHAKESPEARE COMPANY HAMLET
- Who's there? - Nay, answer me:
stand, and unfold yourself.
Long live the king!
- Bernardo? - He.
You come most carefully upon your hour.
'Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco.
For this relief much thanks:
'tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart.
Have you had quiet guard?
Not a mouse stirring.
Well, good night.
Stand, ho! Who's there?
Friends to this ground. And liegemen to the Dane.
- Give you good night. - O, farewell, honest soldier:.
Who hath relieved you?
Bernardo has my place.
Give you good night.
Holla! Bernardo!
Say, What, is Horatio there?
- A piece of him. - Welcome, Horatio: welcome, good Marcellus.
What, has this thing appear'd again to-night?
I have seen nothing.
Horatio says 'tis but our fantasy,
And will not let belief take hold of him
Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us:
Therefore I have entreated him along with us
To watch the minutes of this night;
That if again this apparition come,
He may approve our eyes and speak to it.
Tush, tush, 'twill not appear.
Than let us once again assail your ears,
That are so fortified against our story
What we have two nights seen.
Well, let us hear Bernardo speak of this.
Last night of all,
When yond same star that's westward from the pole
Had made his course to illume that part of heaven
Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself,
The bell then beating one,--
Peace, break thee off;
look, where it comes again!
In the same figure, like the king that's dead.
Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.
Looks it not like the king? mark it, Horatio.
Most like: it harrows me with fear and wonder.
It would be spoke to. Question it, Horatio.
What art thou that usurp'st this time of night,
Together with that fair and warlike form
In which the majesty of buried Denmark Did sometimes march?
by heaven I charge thee, speak!
It is offended. See, it stalks away!
Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee, speak!
'Tis gone,
and will not answer.
Before my God, I might not this believe
Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes.
Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour,
With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.
In what particular thought to work I know not;
But in the gross and scope of my opinion,
This bodes some strange eruption to our state.
Good now, stand close, and tell me, he that knows,
Why this same strict and most observant watch
So nightly toils the subject of the land,
And why such daily cast of brazen cannon,
And foreign mart for implements of war; What might be toward,
to this sweaty haste
Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day:
Who is't that can inform me?
That can I;
At least, the whisper goes so.
Our last king,
Whose image even but now appear'd to us,
Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway,
Dared to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet--
Did slay this Fortinbras;
who does his forfeit, with his life, all these his lands
Now, sir, young Fortinbras,
Of unimproved mettle hot and full,
Hath in the skirts of Norway here and there
Shark'd up a list of lawless resolutes,
to recover of us, those foresaid lands
So by his father lost: and this, I take it,
Is the main motive of our preparations,
The source of this our watch and the chief head
Of this post-haste and romage in the land.
But soft, behold! lo, where it comes again!
I'll cross it, though it blast me. Stay, illusion!
If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, Speak to me:
If thou art privy to thy country's fate,
Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid, O, speak!
Stay, and speak!
Stop it, Marcellus.
Shall I strike at it? Do, if it will not stand.
'Tis here! 'Tis here!
'Tis gone!
We do it wrong, being so majestical,
To offer it the show of violence;
For it is, as the air, invulnerable,
And our vain blows malicious mockery.
It was about to speak, when the cock crew.
And then it started like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful summons.
It faded on the crowing of the cock.
Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.
So have I heard and do in part believe it.
But, look...
the morn, in russet mantle clad,
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill:
Break we our watch up; and by my advice,
Let us impart what we have seen to-night
Unto young Hamlet; for, upon my life,
This spirit, dumb to us,
will speak to him.
Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death
The memory be green,
and that it us befitted
To bear our hearts in grief and our whole kingdom
To be contracted in one brow of woe,
Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature
That we with wisest sorrow think on 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 a 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 barr'd
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 late dear brother's death
Our state to be disjoint and out of frame,
He hath not fail'd to pester us with message,
Importing the surrender of those lands
Lost by his father, with all bonds of law,
To our most valiant brother.
So much for him.
Thus much the business is.
We have here writ to Norway
uncle of young Fortinbras,--
that is suppress his nephiew further march
and threatening enterprise against our state.
And we here dispatch you, good Cornelia
and Voltimand, as our ambasadores to old Norway.
In that and all things will we show our duty.
We doubt it nothing: heartily farewell.
And now, Laertes, what's the news with you?
You told us of some suit; what is't, Laertes?
You cannot speak of reason to the Dane,
And loose your voice.
My dread lord,
Your leave and favour to return to France;
From whence though willingly I came to Denmark,
To show my duty in your coronation,
Yet now, I must confess, that duty done,
My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France
And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.
Have you your father's leave? What says Polonius?
He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave
I do beseech you, give him leave to go.
Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine,
And thy best graces spend it at thy will!
But now,
our cousin Hamlet, and our son,--
A little more than kin, and less than kind.
How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
Not so, my lord; I am too much i' the sun.
Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off,
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do not for ever with thy vailed lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust:
Thou know'st 'tis common; all 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,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly: these indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within which passeth show;
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,
To give these mourning duties to your father:
But, you must know, your father lost a father;
That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound
In filial obligation for some term
To do obsequious sorrow.
but to persever In obstinate condolement is
a course Of impious stubbornness
'tis unmanly grief;
I pray you, throw to earth
this unprevailing woe, and think of us
As of a father: for let the world take note,
You are the most immediate
to our throne; And with no less nobility of love
Than that which dearest father bears his son,
Do I impart toward you.
For your intent In going back to school in...
- Wittenberg. - Wittenberg,
It is most retrograde to our desire.
And we beseech you, bend you to remain here,
in the cheer and comfort of our eye,
Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.
Let not thy mother lose her prayers,
Hamlet.
I pray thee, stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.
I shall in all my best obey you, madam.
Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply!
Be as ourself in Denmark.
Madam, come;
This gentle and unforced accord of Hamlet
Sits smiling to my heart: in grace whereof,
No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day,
But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell,
Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away.
O, that this too
too solid flesh would melt...
Thaw
and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter!
O God!
God!
How weary,
stale,
flat and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on't! ah fie!
'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed;
things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely.
That it should come to this!
But two months dead:
nay, not so much, not two:
So excellent a king; that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr;
so loving to my mother
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must I remember?
why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on: and yet, within a month--
Let me not think on't--
Frailty, thy name is woman!--
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
With which she follow'd my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears: why she, even she--
O, God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourn'd longer--
married with my uncle,
My father's brother, but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules: within a month...
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,
She married.
O, most 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.
Hail to your lordship! I am glad to see you well:
Horatio,
or I do forget myself.
The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.
Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name with you:
And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio? Marcellus!
My good lord-- I am very glad to see you.
Good even, sir.
What, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?
We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.
My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.
I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student;
I think it was to see my mother's wedding.
Indeed, my lord, it follow'd hard upon. Thrift, thrift, Horatio!
the funeral baked meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
My father!--
methinks I see my father.
Where, my lord?
In my mind's eye, Horatio.
I saw him once;
he was a goodly king.
He was a man, take him for all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again.
My lord,
I think I saw him yesternight. Saw? who?
My lord, the king your father.
The king my father!
Season your admiration With an attent ear, till I may deliver,
Upon the witness of these gentlemen, This marvel to you.
For God's love, let me hear.
Two nights together had these gentlemen,
Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch,
In the dead vast and middle of the night,
Been thus encounter'd.
A figure like your father,
Armed at point exactly, cap-a-pe,
Appears before them, and with solemn march
Goes slow and stately by them. This to me
In dreadful secrecy impart they did;
And I with them the third night kept the watch;
Where, as they had deliver'd, The apparition comes:
I knew your father; These hands are not more like.
But where was this?
My lord, upon the platform where we watch'd.
Did you not speak to it?
My lord, I did; But answer made it none: 'Tis very strange.
As I do live, my honour'd lord, 'tis true;
And we did think it writ down in our duty
To let you know of it. Indeed.
indeed, sirs, but this troubles me.
Hold you the watch to-night? We do, my lord.
Arm'd, say you? Arm'd, my lord.
From top to toe? My lord, from head to foot.
Then saw you not his face?
O, yes, my lord; he wore his beaver up.
What, look'd he frowningly?
A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.
Pale or red? Nay, very pale.
And fix'd his eyes upon you? Most constantly.
I would I had been there. It would have much amazed you.
Very like, very like.
Stay'd it long?
While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.
Longer, longer.
Not when I saw't.
His beard was grizzled--no?
It was, as I have seen it in his life,
A sable silver'd.
I will watch to-night; Perchance 'twill walk again.
I warrant it will.
If it assume my noble father's person,
I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape
And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all,
If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight,
Let it be tenable in your silence still;
And whatsoever else shall hap to-night,
Give it an understanding, but no tongue:
I will requite your loves.
So, fare you well:
Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve, I'll visit you.
Our duty to your honour.
My father's spirit in arms! all is not well;
I doubt some foul play:
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.
My necessaries are embark'd:
farewell:
And, sister, as the winds give benefit
And convoy is assistant, do not sleep,
But let me hear from you.
Do you doubt that?
For Hamlet and the trifling of his favour,
Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood,
A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,
The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.
No more but so? Think it no more. Perhaps he loves you now,
And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch
The virtue of his will: but you must fear,
His greatness weigh'd, his will is not his own;
For he himself is subject to his birth:
He may not, as unvalued persons do,
Carve for himself; for on his choice depends
The safety and health of this whole state;
And therefore must his choice be circumscribed
Unto the voice and yielding of that body Whereof he is the head.
Then 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 weigh what loss your honour may sustain,
If with too credent ear you list his songs,
Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open
To his unmaster'd importunity.
Fear it, Ophelia,
fear it, my dear sister,
And keep you in the rear of your affection,
Out of the shot and danger of desire.
Be wary then; best safety lies in fear:
Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.
I shall the effect of this good 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;
Whiles, like a puff'd and reckless libertine,
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads,
And recks not his own rede. O, fear me not.
I stay too long: but here my father comes.
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 stay'd for.
There; my blessing with thee!
And these few precepts in thy memory
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned 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 entertainment
Of each new-hatch'd, unfledged comrade.
Beware Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in,
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 express'd 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,
- And borrowing - dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all:
to thine ownself be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell
my blessing season this in thee!
Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.
The time invites you; go; your servants tend.
Farewell, Ophelia;
and remember well What I have said to you.
'Tis in my memory lock'd,
And you yourself shall keep the key of it.
Farewell.
What is't, Ophelia, be hath said to you?
So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.
Marry, well bethought:
Tis told me, he hath very oft of late
Given private time to you; and you yourself
Have of your audience been most free and bounteous:
If it be so, as so 'tis put on me,
And that in way of caution, I must tell you,
You do not understand yourself so clearly
As it behoves my daughter and your honour.
What is between you? give me up the truth.
He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders
Of his affection to me.
Affection! pooh!
you speak like a green girl,
Unsifted in such perilous circumstance.
Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?
I do not know, my lord, what I should think.
Marry, I'll teach you: think yourself a baby;
That you have ta'en these tenders for true pay,
Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly;
Or--not to crack the wind of the poor phrase,
Running it thus-- you'll tender me a fool.
My lord, he hath importuned me with love
In honourable fashion.
Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to.
And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord,
With almost all the holy vows of heaven.
Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know,
When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul,
Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter,
Giving more light than heat, extinct in both,
You must not take for fire. From this time
Be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence;
For Lord Hamlet, Believe so much in him, that he is young
And with a larger tether may he walk
Than may be given you:
in few, Ophelia, Do not believe his vows;.
This is for all:
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't, I charge you:
come your ways.
I shall obey, my lord.
The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.
It is a nipping and an eager air.
- What hour now? - I think it lacks of twelve.
- No, it is struck. - Indeed? I heard it not:
then it draws near the season
Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.
What does this mean, my lord?
The king doth wake to-night and takes his rouse,
Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels;
And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,
The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out
- The triumph of his pledge. - Is it a custom?
Ay, marry, is't:
But to my mind, though I am native here
And to the manner born, it is a custom
More honour'd in the breach than the observance.
Look, my lord, it comes!
Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,
Thou comest in such a questionable shape
That I will speak to thee:
I'll call thee Hamlet,
King,
father,
royal Dane: O, answer me!
Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell
Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death,
Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre,
Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn'd,
Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws,
To cast thee up again. What may this mean,
That thou, dead corpse, again in complete steel
Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon,
Making night hideous; and we fools of nature
So horridly to shake our disposition
With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?
Say, why is this?
wherefore?
what should we do?
It beckons you to go away with it,
As if it some impartment did desire To you alone.
It waves you to a more removed ground: But do not go with it.
- No, by no means. - It will not speak; then I will follow it.
- Do not, my lord. - Why, what should be the fear?
I do not set my life in a pin's fee;
And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself?
It waves me forth again: I'll follow it.
What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord,
Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff
That beetles o'er his base into the sea,
And there assume some other horrible form,
Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason
- And draw you into madness? - It waves me still.
- Go on; I'll follow thee. - You shall not go, my lord.
- Hold off your hands. - Be ruled; you shall not go.
My fate cries out,
And makes each petty artery in this body
As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.
Still am I call'd. Unhand me, gentlemen.
By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me!
I say, away!
Go on; I'll follow thee.
He waxes desperate with imagination.
Let's follow; 'tis not fit thus to obey him.
- Have after. - To what issue will this come?
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
- Heaven will direct it. - Nay, let's follow.
Where wilt thou lead me? speak; I'll go no further.
- Mark me. - I will.
My hour is almost come, When I to sulphurous 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.
So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.
What?
I am thy father's spirit,
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,
And for the day confined to fast in fires,
Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature
Are burnt and 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,
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood.
List, list, O, list!
- If thou didst ever thy dear father love... - O God!
... Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.
Murder!!
Murder most foul,
as in the best it is,
But this most foul, strange and unnatural.
Haste me to know't, that I, with wings as swift
As meditation or the thoughts of love,
May sweep to my revenge.
I find thee apt;
'Tis given out that sleeping in my orchard,
A serpent stung me.
but know,
thou noble youth,
The serpent that did sting thy father's life
Now wears his crown.
O my prophetic soul! My uncle!
Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,
With witchcraft of his wit,
with traitorous gifts, won to his shameful lust
The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen:
O Hamlet, what a falling-off was there!
From me, whose love was of that dignity
That it went hand in hand even with the vow
I made to her in marriage,
and to decline upon a wretch
whose natural gifts were poor
To those of mine!
But lust, though to a radiant angel link'd,
Will sate itself in a celestial bed,
And prey on garbage.
But, soft!
methinks I scent the morning air.
Brief let me be.
Sleeping within my orchard,
My custom always in the afternoon,
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole,
With juice of cursed
hebenon in a vial,
And in the porches of my ears did pour
The leperous distilment; whose effect
Holds such an enmity with blood of man
That swift as quicksilver it courses through
The natural gates and alleys of the body,
And with a sudden vigour doth posset
And curd, The thin and wholesome blood:
so did it mine;
And a most instant tetter bark'd about,
Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust,
All my smooth body.
Thus was I,
sleeping, by a brother's hand of life
of crown, and queen, at once
dispatch'd
O, horrible!
- Most horrible! - O God!
If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not;
Let not the royal bed of Denmark be a couch
for luxury and damned incest.
But, howsoever thou pursuest this act,
Taint not thy mind,
nor let thy soul contrive Against thy mother aught.
leave her to heaven
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, To prick and sting her.
Fare thee well at once!
The glow-worm shows the matin to be near,
And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire:
Adieu, adieu!
Hamlet...
remember me!
O all you host of heaven!
O earth! what else?
And shall I couple hell? O, fie!!
Hold, hold, my heart;
And you, my sinews, grow not instant old,
But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee!
Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe. Remember thee!
Yea, from the table of my memory
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,
That youth and observation copied there;
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmix'd with baser matter: yes, by heaven!
O most pernicious woman!
O villain,
villain,
smiling, damned villain!
My tables,-- meet it is I set it down,
That one may smile, and smile,
and be a villain.
At least,
I'm sure it may be so in Denmark.
So,
uncle,
there you are.
Now to my word
It is 'Adieu, adieu! remember me.'
I have sworn 't.
- My lord, my lord,--, - Heaven secure him! - So be it!
Hillo, ho, ho, my lord!
Hillo, ho, ho, boy! come, bird, come.
How is't, my noble lord?
- What news, my lord? - O, wonderful!
Good my lord, tell it.
- No; you'll reveal it. - Not I, my lord, by heaven.
- Nor I, my lord. - How say you, then;
would heart of man once think it?
- But you'll be secret? - Ay, by heaven, my lord.
There's ne'er a villain dwelling in all Denmark
But he's an arrant knave.
There needs no ghost come from the grave To tell us this.
Why, right; you are i' the right;
And so, without more circumstance at all, I hold it fit that we shake hands and part:
You, as your business and desire shall point you;
For every man has business and desires,
Such as it is; and for mine own poor part,
Look you, I'll go pray.
These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.
I'm sorry they offend you, heartily; Yes, 'faith heartily.
There's no offence, my lord.
Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio,
And much offence too.
Touching this vision here,
It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you:
For your desire to know what is between us,
O'ermaster 't as you may. And now, good friends,
As you are friends, scholars and soldiers,
Give me one poor request.
What is't, my lord? we will.
Never make known what you have seen to-night.
My lord, we will not.
Nay, but swear't.
In faith, My lord, not I.
- Nor I, my lord, in faith. - Upon my sword.
- We have sworn, my lord, already. - Indeed, upon my sword, indeed.
- Swear. - Ah, ha, boy!
say'st thou so? art thou there, truepenny?
Come on--you hear this fellow in the cellarage--
- Consent to swear. - Propose the oath, my lord.
Never to speak of this that you have seen, Swear by my sword.
Swear.
Hic et ubique? then we'll shift our ground.
Come hither, gentlemen, And lay your hands again upon my sword:
Never to speak of this that you have heard,
- Swear by my sword. - Swear.
Well said, old mole!
canst work i' the earth so fast? A worthy pioner!
Once more remove, good friends.
O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!
And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But come;
Here, as before, never, so help you mercy,
How strange or odd soe'er I bear myself,
As I perchance hereafter shall think meet
To put an antic disposition on,
That you, at such times seeing me, never shall,
With arms encumber'd thus, or this headshake,
Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase,
As 'Well, well, we know,' or 'We could, an if we would,'
Or such ambiguous giving out, to note
That you know aught of me: this not to do,
So grace and mercy at your most need help you,
Swear!
- Swear! - We swear! We swear!
Rest, rest, perturbed spirit!
So, gentlemen,
Let us go in together;
And still your fingers on your lips, I pray.
The time is out of joint.
O cursed spite,
That ever I was born to set it right!
Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.
I will, my lord.
You shall do marvellous wisely, good Reynaldo,
Before you visit him, to make inquire Of his behavior.
My lord, I did intend it.
Marry, well said; very well said. Look you, sir,
Inquire me first what Danskers are in Paris;
And how, and who, what means, and where they keep,
What company, at what expense; and finding
By this encompassment and drift of question
That they do know my son, come you more nearer
Take you, as 'twere, some distant knowledge of him;
As thus, 'I know his father and his friends,
And in part him: ' do you mark this, Reynaldo?
Ay, very well, my lord.
'And in part him; but' you may say 'not well:
But, if't be he I mean, he's very wild;
Addicted so and so: ' and there put on him
What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank
As may dishonour him; take heed of that;
But, sir, such wanton, wild and usual slips
As are companions noted and most known
To youth and liberty.
As gaming, my lord.
Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrelling,
Drabbing: you may go so far.
My lord, that would dishonour him.
'Faith, no; as you may season it in the charge
- But, my good lord,-- - Wherefore should you do this?
- Ay, my lord, I would know that. - Marry, sir, here's my drift;
And I believe, it is a fetch of wit:
You laying these slight sullies on my son,
As 'twere a thing a little soil'd i' the working, Mark you,
Your party in converse, him you would sound,
Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes
The youth you breathe of guilty, be assured
He closes with you in this consequence;
'Good sir,' or so,
or 'friend,' or 'gentleman,'
According to the phrase or the addition
Of man and country.
Very good, my lord.
And then, sir, does he this--
he does--
what was I about to say?
By the mass, I was about to say something:
where did I leave?
At 'closes in the consequence...
At 'closes in the consequence...?
' ay, marry;
He closes thus: 'I know the gentleman;
I saw him yesterday, or t' other day,
Or then, or then; with such, or such;
and, as you say, There was a' gaming;
There falling out at tennis: ' or perchance,
'I saw him enter such a house of sale,'
Videlicet, a brothel, or so forth. See you now;
Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth:
And thus do we of wisdom and of reach,
By indirections find directions out:
- You have me, have you not? - My lord, I have.
God be wi' you;
- fare you well. - Good my lord!
Observe his inclination in yourself.
- I shall, my lord. - And let him ply his music.
Well, my lord.
Farewell!
How now, Ophelia! what's the matter?
O, my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!
With what, i' the name of God?
My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,
Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbraced;
No hat upon his head; his stockings foul'd,
Ungarter'd, and down-gyved to his ancle;
Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other;
And with a look so piteous in purport
As if he had been loosed out of hell
To speak of horrors, --he comes before me.
- Mad for thy love? - My lord, I do not know;
- But truly, I do fear it. - What said he?
He took me by the wrist and held me hard;
Then goes he to the length of all his arm;
And, with his other hand thus o'er his brow,
He falls to such perusal of my face As he would draw it.
Long stay'd he so;
At last, a little shaking of mine arm
And thrice his head thus waving up and down,
He raised a sigh so piteous and profound
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk
And end his being
that done, he lets me go:
And, with his head over his shoulder turn'd,
He seem'd to find his way without his eyes;
For out o' doors he went without their helps,
And, to the last, bended their light on me.
Come, This is the very ecstasy of love,
Whose violent property fordoes itself
And leads the will to desperate undertakings
I am sorry.
What, have you given him any hard words of late?
No, my good lord, but, as you did command,
I did repel his fetters and denied
- His access to me. - That hath made him mad.
I am sorry that with better heed and judgment
I had not quoted him: I fear'd he did but trifle,
And meant to wreck thee; but, beshrew my jealousy!
Come, go we to the king:
This must be known;
Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern!
Moreover that we much did long to see you,
The need we have to use you did provoke
Our hasty sending. Something have you heard
Of Hamlet's transformation. What it should be,
More than his father's death, that thus hath put him
So much from the understanding of himself,
I cannot dream of: I beseech you,
That, being of such
young days brought up with him,
That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court
Some little time: so by your companies
To lead him on to pleasures, and to gather,
So much as from occasion you may glean,
Whether aught, unknown to us, afflicts him thus,
That, open'd, lies within our remedy.
Good gentlemen, he hath much talk'd of you;
And sure I am two men there are not living
To whom he more adheres. If it will please you
To show us so much gentry and good will
As to expend your time with us awhile,
For the supply and profit of our hope,
Your visitation shall receive such thanks
As fits a king's remembrance.
Both your majesties
Might, by the sovereign power you have of us,
Put your dread pleasures more into command
Than to entreaty.
But we both obey,
And here give up ourselves, in the full bent
To lay our service freely at your feet, To be commanded.
Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.
Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz:
And I beseech you instantly to visit My too much changed son.
Go, some of you, And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is.
Heavens make our presence and our practises
Pleasant and helpful to him! Ay, amen!
The ambassadors from Norway, my good lord,
Are joyfully return'd.
Thou still hast been the father of good news.
Have I, my lord?
I assure my good liege, I hold my duty, as I hold my soul,
Both to my God and to my gracious king:
And I do think that I have found
The very cause of Hamlet's lunacy.
O, speak of that; that do I long to hear.
A first give admittance to the ambassadors;
My news shall be the fruit to that great feast.
Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in.
He tells me, my dear Gertrude, that he hath found
The head and source of all your son's distemper.
I doubt it is no other but the main;
His father's death,
and our o'erhasty marriage.
Well, we will sift him.
Welcome, good friends!
Say, what from our brother Norway?
Most fair return of greetings and desires.
he sent out to suppress His nephew's march.
the which is told a propose 'gainst the Poles
But, better look'd into, he truly found
It was against your highness and our state.
So, Fortinbras Receives rebuke from him
and vowes before his uncle never more
To give the assay of arms against stand mark here.
It likes us well;
at night we'll feast together:
Most welcome home!
This business is well ended.
My liege, and madam, to expostulate
What majesty should be, what duty is,
Why day is day, night night,
and time is time,
Were 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't but to be nothing else but mad?
- But let that go. - More matter, with 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 will use no art.
Mad let us grant him, then: and now remains
That we 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.
I have a daughter --have while she is mine--
Who, in her duty and obedience, mark,
Hath given me this:
now gather, and surmise.
'To the celestial and my soul's idol,
the most beautified Ophelia,'--
Oh that's an ill phrase, a vile phrase
'beautified' is a vile phrase: but you shall hear. Thus:
'In her excellent white bosom, these, &c.'
Came this from Hamlet to her?
Good madam, stay awhile; I will be faithful.
'Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.
This, in obedience, hath my daughter shown me, and more above
But how hath she Received his love?
What do you think of me?
As of a friend faithful and honourable.
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 your queen here, think,
If I had given my heart a winking, mute and dumb,
Or look'd upon this love with idle sight;
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:' and then I precepts gave her,
That she should lock herself from his resort,
Admit no messengers, receive no tokens.
Which done, she took the fruits of my advice;
And he, repulsed-- 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 likely.
Hath there been such a time-- I'd fain know that--
That I have positively said 'Tis so,'
When it proved otherwise?
Not that I know.
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 centre.
How may we try this further?
You know, sometimes he walks four hours together
Here in the lobby.
So he does indeed.
At such a time I'll loose my daughter to him:
Be you and I behind an arras then;
Mark the encounter: if he love her not
And be not from his reason fall'n thereon,
Let me be no assistant for a state, But keep a farm and carters.
- We will try it. - But, look, where sadly the poor wretch comes.
Sweet Gertrude, leave us too;
Her father and myself, lawful espials,
us may of their encounter frankly judge,
If 't be the affliction of his love or no
That thus he suffers for.
I shall obey you.
And for your part, Ophelia,
I do wish
That your good beauties be the happy cause
Of Hamlet's wildness: so shall I hope your virtues
Will bring him to his wonted way again,
To both your honours.
Madam, I wish it may.
Ophelia, walk you here.
Read on this book;
That show of such an exercise may colour your loneliness.
- I hear him coming. - Let's withdraw, my lord.
To be, or not to be...
that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to 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 heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to
'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd.
To die,
to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream:
ay, 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 life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. --Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia!
Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd.
Good my lord, How does your honour for this many a day?
I humbly thank you; well, well, well.
My lord, I have remembrances of yours,
That I have longed long to re-deliver;
I pray you, now receive them.
Not I; I never gave you aught.
My honour'd lord, you know right well you did;
And, with them, words of so sweet breath composed
As made the things more rich: their perfume lost,
Take these 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, my lord, 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;
but yet I could accuse me of such things
it would be better my mother had not borne me:
What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven?
We are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us.
Go thy ways to a nunnery.
Where's your father?
At home, my lord.
Let the doors be shut upon him,
that he may play the fool no where but in's own house.
Farewell.
O, help him, you sweet heavens!
If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry:
be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow,
thou shalt not escape calumny.
Get thee to a nunnery, go: farewell.
Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool;
for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them.
To a nunnery, go, and quickly too. Farewell.
O heavenly powers, restore him!
You jig, you amble, and you lisp,
and nick-name God's creatures,
and make your wantonness your ignorance.
Go to, I'll no more on't; it hath made me mad.
I say, we will have no more marriages:
those that are married already, all but one, shall live;
the rest shall keep as they are.
To a nunnery, go.
O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!
The courtier's,
soldier's,
scholar's, eye,
tongue, sword;
The expectancy and rose of the fair state,
The glass of fashion
and the mould of form,
The observed of all observers,
quite,
quite down!
And I,
of ladies most deject and wretched,
That suck'd the honey of his music vows,
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;
That unmatch'd form and feature of blown youth
Blasted with ecstasy:
O, woe is me,
To have seen what I have seen,
see what I see!
Love! his affections do not that way tend;
There's something in his soul,
O'er which his melancholy sits on brood;
And I do doubt the hatch and the disclose
Will be some danger:
How now, Ophelia!
You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said;
We heard it all.
Away, I do beseech you, here he comes!
I'll board him presently.
How does my good Lord Hamlet?
Well,
God-a-mercy.
Do you know me, my lord?
Excellent well; you are a fishmonger.
- Not I, my lord. - Then I would you were so honest a man.
Honest, my lord!
Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be
one man picked out of ten thousand.
That's very true, my lord.
For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a
god kissing carrion,-- Have you a daughter?
I have, my lord.
Let her not walk i' the sun:
conception is a blessing: but not as your daughter may conceive.
Friend, look to 't.
How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter:
yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger:
he is far gone, far gone:
and truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love;
very near this. I'll speak to him again.
What do you read, my lord?
Words,
words, words?
What is the matter, my lord?
Between who?
I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.
Slanders, sir: for the satirical rogue says here
that old men have grey beards,
that their faces are wrinkled,
their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum
and that they have a plentiful lack of wit,
together with most weak hams:
all which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet
I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down,
for yourself, sir, should be old as I am,
if like a crab you could go backward.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't.
Will you walk out of the air, my lord?
Into my grave.
Indeed, that is out o' the air.
How pregnant sometimes his replies are!
My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you.
You cannot, sir, take from me any thing
that I will more willingly part withal:
except my life,
except my life.
Fare you well, my lord.
These tedious old fools!
You go to seek the Lord Hamlet; there he is.
God save you, sir!
- My honoured lord! - My most dear lord!
My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern?
Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do ye both?
As the indifferent children of the earth.
Happy, in that we are not over-happy;
On fortune's cap we are not the very button.
- Nor the soles of her shoes? - Neither, my lord.
Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her favours?
'Faith, her privates we.
In the secret parts of fortune?
Most true; she is a strumpet.
- What's the news? - None, my lord,
but that the world's grown honest.
Then is doomsday 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 sends you to prison hither?
- Prison, my lord! - Denmark's a prison.
Then is the world one.
A goodly one; in which there are many confines, wards and dungeons,
Denmark being one o' the worst.
We think not so, my lord.
Why, then, 'tis none to you;
for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so:
to me it is a prison.
Why then, your ambition makes it one;
'tis too narrow for your mind.
O God,
I could be bounded in a nut shell,
and count myself a king of infinite space,
were it not that I have bad dreams.
- Shall we to the court? - We'll wait upon you.
No such matter:
I will not sort you with the rest of my servants,
But, in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore?
To visit you, my lord; no other occasion.
Were you not sent for?
Is it your own inclining?
A free visitation?
Come, deal justly with me:
- Come; nay, speak. - What should we say, my lord?
Why, any thing, but to the purpose.
You were sent for; and there is a kind of confession in your looks
which your modesties have not craft enough to colour:
I know the good king and queen have sent for you.
To what end, my lord?
That you must teach me.
But let me conjure you, by the rights of our fellowship,
be even and direct with me, whether you were sent for, or no?
What say you?
Nay, then, I have an eye of you.-- If you love me, hold not off.
My lord, we were sent for.
I will tell you why;
so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery,
and your secrecy to the king and queen moult no feather.
I have
of late--
but wherefore I know not--
lost all my mirth,
forgone all custom of exercise;
and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition
that this goodly frame, the earth,
seems to me a sterile promontory,
this most excellent canopy, the air,
look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament,
this majestical roof fretted with golden fire...
why, it appears no other thing to me
than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is a man!
how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculty!
in form and moving how express and admirable!
in action how like an angel!
in apprehension how like a god!
the beauty of the world!
the paragon of animals!
And yet, to me, what is this...
quintessence of dust?
man delights not me:
no, nor woman neither,
though by your smiling you seem to say so.
My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts.
Why did you laugh then, when I said 'man delights not me'?
To think, my lord, if you delight not in man,
what lenten entertainment the players shall receive from you:
we coted them on the way;
- and hither are they coming, to offer you service. - What players are they?
Even those you were wont to take delight in, the tragedians of the city.
He that plays the king shall be welcome;
his majesty shall have tribute of me;
It is not very strange; for mine uncle is king of Denmark,
and those that would make mows at him while my father lived,
give twenty, forty, fifty, an hundred ducats a-piece for his picture
in little.
'Sblood,
there is something in this more than natural,
if philosophy could find it out.
There are the players.
Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore.
Come then your hands.
My uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.
In what, my dear lord?
I am but mad north-north-west:
when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.
Well be with you, gentlemen!
Hark you, Guildenstern; and you too: at each ear a hearer:
that great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling-clouts.
Happily he's the second time come to them; for they say an old man is twice a child.
I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players;
mark it.
You say right, sir: o' Monday morning; 'twas so indeed.
My lord, I have news to tell you.
- When Roscius was an actor in Rome,-- - The actors are come hither, my lord.
- Buz, buz! - Upon mine honour,-- - Then came each actor on his ass,--
The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history,
pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral,
tragical-historical, tragicalcomical- historical-pastoral,
scene individable, or poem unlimited:
Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light.
O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou!
What a treasure had he, my lord?
Why, 'One fair daughter and no more, The which he loved passing well.'
- Still on my daughter. - Am I not i' the right, old Jephthah?
If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I love passing well.
Nay, that follows not.
- What follows, then, my lord? - You are welcome, masters; welcome, all.
I am glad to see thee well. Welcome, good friends.
O, my old friend!
What, my young lady and mistress!
By'r lady, your ladyship is nearer
to heaven than when I last saw you ,
Pray God, your voice,
be not cracked within the ring.
That we'll have a speech straight:
come, give us a taste of your quality; come, a passionate speech.
What speech, my lord?
I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was never acted;
or, if it was, not above once; for the play, I remember, pleased not the million;
'twas caviare to the general:
One speech in it I chiefly loved: 'twas Aeneas' tale to Dido;
and thereabout of it especially, where he speaks of Priam's slaughter.
if it live in your memory, begin at this line:
let me see, let me see--
'The rugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast'-- it is not so:--
it begins with Pyrrhus:-- 'The rugged Pyrrhus,
- "he whose sable arms..." - "whose sable arms"!
Ehm... Black as his purpose, did the night resemble
Ehm... When he lay couched in the ominous horse,
Hath now this dread and black complexion smear'd
With heraldry more dismal; head to foot
- Now is he... - total...
total gules roasted in wrath
And thus o'er-sized with coagulate gore,
With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus
the hellish Pyrrhus...
Old grandsire Priam seeks.'
So, proceed you.
'Fore God, my lord, well spoken,
with good accent and good discretion.
'Anon he finds him
Striking too short at Greeks; his antique sword,
Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls,
Repugnant to command: unequal match'd,
Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage strikes wide;
But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword
The unnerved father falls.
Then senseless Ilium,
Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top
Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash
Takes prisoner Pyrrhus' ear: for, lo! his sword,
Which was declining on the milky head
Of reverend Priam, seem'd i' the air to stick:
So,
as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood,
And like a neutral to his will and matter,
Did nothing.
But, as we often see, against some storm,
A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still,
The bold winds speechless and the orb below
As hush as death,
anon the dreadful thunder
Doth rend the region, so, after Pyrrhus' pause,
Aroused vengeance sets him new a-work;
And never did the Cyclops' hammers fall
On Mars's armour forged for proof eterne
With less remorse than Pyrrhus' bleeding sword
Now falls on Priam.
This is too long.
It shall to the barber's, with your beard. Prithee, say on:
he's for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps:
say on: come to Hecuba.
'But who,
O, who had seen the mobled queen--'
- 'The mobled queen? - That's good; 'mobled queen' is good.
'Run
barefoot up and down,
threatening the flames With bisson rheum; a clout upon that head
Where late the diadem stood,
and for a robe, About her lank and all o'er-teemed loins,
A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up;
Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep'd,
'Gainst Fortune's state would treason have pronounced:
But if the gods themselves did see her then
When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport
In mincing with his sword her husband's limbs,
The instant burst of clamour that she made,
Unless things mortal move them not at all,
Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven,
And passion in the gods.'
Look, whether he has not turned his colour and has tears in's eyes.
Pray you, no more.
'Tis well:
I'll have thee speak out the rest soon.
My lord, will you see the players well bestowed?
Do you hear, let them be well used;
for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time.
My lord, I will use them according to their desert.
God's bodykins, man, much better!
Use every man after his desert, and who should 'scape whipping?
Come, sirs.
Follow him, friends: we'll hear a play to-morrow..
Dost thou hear me, old friend;
can you play the Murder of Gonzago?
- Ay, my lord. - We'll ha't to-morrow night.
You could, for a need, study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines,
which I would set down and insert in't, could you not?
- Ay, my lord. - Very well.
Follow that lord; and pray you mock him not.
Ehm... no.
My good friends, I'll leave you till night:
you are welcome to Elsinore.
Good my lord!
God be wi' ye;
Now I am alone.
O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
Is it not monstrous 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 wann'd,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit?
and all for nothing!
For Hecuba!
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her?
What would he do,
Had he the motive and the cue for passion
That I have? He would drown the stage with tears
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech,
Make mad the guilty and appal the free,
Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed
The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak,
Like John-a-dreams,
unpregnant of my cause, And can say nothing;
no, not for a king,
Upon whose property and most dear life
A damn'd defeat was made.
Am I a coward?
Who calls me villain?
breaks my pate across?
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face?
Tweaks me by the nose?
gives me the lie i' the throat, As deep as to the lungs? who does me this? Ha!
'Swounds, I should take it: for it cannot be
But I am pigeon-liver'd and lack gall
To make oppression bitter, or ere this
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave's offal:
bloody, bawdy villain!
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain!
O, vengeance!
Why, what an ass am I!
This is most brave,
That I, the son of a dear father
murder'd,
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words,
And fall a-cursing, like a very drab,
A scullion! Fie upon't! foh!
About, my brain!
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 proclaim'd their malefactions;
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ.
I'll have these players
Play something like the murder of my father
Before mine uncle.
I'll observe his looks; I'll tent him to the quick:
if he but blench,
I know my course.
The spirit that I have seen May be the devil: and the devil hath power
To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps
Out of my weakness and my melancholy,
As he is very potent with such spirits, Abuses me to damn me:
I'll have grounds More relative than this:
the play 's the thing
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.
And can you, by no drift of circumstance,
Get from him why he puts on this confusion,
He does confess he feels himself distracted;
But from what cause he will by no means speak.
Nor do we find him forward to be sounded,
But, with a crafty madness, keeps aloof,
When we would bring him on to some confession Of his true 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.
Did you assay him? To any pastime?
Madam, it so fell out, that certain players
We o'er-raught on the way: of these we told him;
And there did seem in him a kind of joy to hear of it.
'Tis most true.
And he beseech'd me to entreat your majesties To hear and see the matter.
With all my heart; and it doth much content me
To hear him so inclined.
Good gentlemen, give him a further edge,
And drive his purpose on to these delights.
We shall, my lord.
I have in quick determination Thus set it down:
he shall with speed to England,
Haply the seas and countries different
With variable objects shall expel
This something-settled matter in his heart,
Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus
From fashion of himself. What think you on't?
It shall do well: but yet do I believe
The origin and commencement of his grief
Sprung from neglected love.
My lord, do as you please;
But, if you hold it fit, after the play
Let his queen mother all alone entreat him
To show his grief: let her be round with him;
And I'll be placed, so please you, in the ear
Of all their conference. If she find him not,
To England send him, or confine him
where your wisdom best shall think.
It shall be so:
Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd go.
Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you,
trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it,
as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines.
Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand,
thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest,
and, as I may say, the whirlwind of passion,
you must acquire and beget a temperance
that may give it smoothness.
O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious
periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters,
to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings,
who for the most part are capable of nothing but
inexplicable dumbshows and noise:
I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant;
it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it.
I warrant your honour.
Be not too tame neither,
but let your own discretion be your tutor:
suit the action to the word, the word to the action;
with this special o'erstep
you o'erstep not the modesty of nature:
for any thing so overdone is
from the purpose of playing, whose end,
both at the first and last, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature;
to show virtue her own feature,
scorn her own image
the very age and body of the time
his form and pressure.
Now this overdone, or come tardy off,
though it make the unskilful laugh
cannot but make the judicious grieve;
the censure of the which one must in your allowance
o'erweigh a whole theatre of others.
I hope we have reformed that indifferently with us, sir.
Reform it altogether.
And let those that play your clowns
speak no more than is set down for them;
for there be of them that will themselves laugh,
to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too
though, in the mean time, some necessary question
of the play be then to be considered:
that's villanous,
and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it.
Go, make you ready. Good, my lord!
Will the king hear this piece of work?
And the queen too, and that presently.
Bid the players make haste.
Will you two help to hasten them?
We will, my lord.
- What ho! Horatio! - Here, sweet lord, at your service.
Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man As e'er my conversation coped withal.
O, my dear lord,--
Nay, do not think I flatter; Dost thou hear?
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice
And could of men distinguish, her election Hath seal'd thee for herself;
Give me that man
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.-- Something too much of this.--
There is a play to-night before the king;
One scene of it comes near the circumstance Which I have told thee of my father's death:
I prithee, when thou seest that act afoot,
Even with the very comment of thy soul Observe mine uncle:
if his occulted guilt
Do not itself unkennel in one speech,
It is a damned ghost that we have seen,
And my imaginations are as foul As Vulcan's stithy.
Well, my lord:
If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing,
And 'scape detecting, I will pay the theft.
They are coming to the play.
I must be idle: Get you a place.
How fares our cousin Hamlet?
Excellent, i' faith; of the chameleon's dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed:
I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these words are not mine.
No, nor mine now. My lord,
you played once i' the university, you say?
That did I, my lord; and was accounted a good actor.
What did you enact?
I did enact Julius Caesar.
I was killed i' the Capitol;
Brutus killed me.
It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there.
Be the players ready?
Ay, my lord; they stay upon your patience.
Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me.
No, good mother,
here's metal more attractive.
O, ho! do you mark that?
Lady, shall I lie in your lap?
- No, my lord. - I mean, my head upon your lap?
- Ay, my lord. - Do you think I meant country matters?
I think nothing, my lord.
That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs.
- What is, my lord? - Nothing.
You are merry, my lord.
- Who, I? - Ay, my lord.
O God, your only jig-maker. What should a man do but be merry?
For, look you, how cheerfully my mother looks,
and my father died within these two hours.
Nay, 'tis twice two months, my lord.
So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black,
for I'll have a suit of sables.
O heavens!
Die two months ago, and not forgotten yet?
Dead!
What means this, my lord?
Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief.
Belike this show imports the argument of the play.
We shall know by this fellow: the players cannot keep counsel; they'll tell all.
For us, and for our tragedy,
Here stooping to your clemency,
We beg your hearing patiently.
Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?
'Tis brief, my lord.
As woman's love.
Full thirty years of past in sacred bands
Since love our hearts
and Hymen joined our hands.
So many journeys may the sun and moon
Make us again count o'er
ere love be done!
'Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too;
My operant powers their functions leave to do:
And thou shalt live in this fair world behind,
Honour'd, beloved; and haply one as kind
For husband shalt thou--
O, confound the rest!
Such love must needs be treason in my breast:
In second husband let me be accurst!
None wed the second but who kill'd the first.
A second time I kill my husband dead,
When second husband kisses me in bed.
I do believe you think what now you speak;
But what we do determine oft we break.
So think thou wilt no second husband wed;
But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.
Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light!
Sport and repose lock from me day and night!
Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife,
If, once a widow, ever I be wife!
If she should break it now!
'Tis deeply sworn.
Sweet, leave me here awhile;
My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile
The tedious day with sleep.
Sleep rock thy brain,
And never come mischance between us twain!
Madam, how like you this play?
The lady does protest too much, methinks.
- O, but she'll keep her word. - Have you heard the argument?
- Is there no offence in 't? - No, no, they do but jest,
poison in jest; no offence i' the world.
What do you call the play?
The Mouse-trap.
This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna.
Gonzago is the duke's name; his wife, Baptista:
You shall see anon; 'tis a knavish piece of work: but what o' that?
your majesty and we that have free souls, it touches us not:
let the galled jade wince, our withers are unwrung.
This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king.
You are as good as a chorus, my lord.
I could interpret between you and your love,
if I could see the puppets dallying.
You are keen, my lord, you are keen.
Begin, murderer;
pox, leave thy damnable faces, and begin.
Come: 'the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.'
Thoughts black,
hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing;
Confederate season, else no creature seeing;
Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected,
With Hecate's ban thrice blasted, thrice infected,
Thy natural magic and dire property,
On wholesome life usurp immediately.
He poisons him i' the garden for's estate.
His name's Gonzago: the story is extant, and writ in choice Italian:
you shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago's wife.
- The king rises. - What, frighted with false fire!
- How fares my lord? - Give o'er the play.
Give me some light.
- Away! - Lights, lights, lights!