William Shakespeare《THE TRAGEDY  OF   HAMLET, PRINCE   OF   DENMARK》

Contents
ACT I
Scene     I. Elsinore.      A     platform before    the  Castle.
Scene     II. Elsinore.     A     room      of    state       in    the  Castle
Scene     III. A room      in    Polonius’s      house.
Scene     IV.   The platform.
Scene     V.   A     more      remote   part of    the  Castle.
ACT II

Scene     I. A  room      in    Polonius’s      house.

Scene     II. A room      in    the  Castle.

ACT III

Scene     I. A  room      in    the  Castle.

Scene     II. A hall  in    the  Castle.

Scene     III. A room      in    the  Castle.

Scene     IV.   Another  room      in    the  Castle.

ACT IV

Scene     I. A  room      in    the  Castle.

Scene     II. Another     room      in    the  Castle.

Scene     III. Another    room      in    the  Castle.

Scene     IV.   A     plain       in    Denmark.

Scene     V.   Elsinore. A     room      in    the  Castle.

Scene     VI.   Another  room      in    the  Castle.

Scene     VII. Another  room      in    the  Castle.

ACT V

Scene     I. A  churchyard.

Scene     II. A hall  in    the  Castle.

Dramatis Personæ

HAMLET, Prince     of    Denmark.

CLAUDIUS,     King of    Denmark,      Hamlet’s uncle.

The GHOST   of    the  late king,       Hamlet’s father.

GERTRUDE,    the  Queen,   Hamlet’s mother,  now wife of    Claudius.

POLONIUS,    Lord Chamberlain.

LAERTES, Son to    Polonius.

OPHELIA,       Daughter       to    Polonius.

HORATIO,      Friend     to    Hamlet.

FORTINBRAS, Prince     of    Norway.

VOLTEMAND,       Courtier.

CORNELIUS,  Courtier.

ROSENCRANTZ,    Courtier.

GUILDENSTERN,   Courtier.

MARCELLUS,  Officer.

BARNARDO,  Officer.

FRANCISCO,  a     Soldier

OSRIC,    Courtier.

REYNALDO,   Servant   to    Polonius.

Players.

A     Gentleman,   Courtier.

A     Priest.

Two Clowns,  Grave-diggers.

A     Captain.

English   Ambassadors.

Lords,     Ladies,    Officers,  Soldiers, Sailors,   Messengers,  and       Attendants.

SCENE.   Elsinore.

ACT I

SCENE    I.     Elsinore. A     platform before    the  Castle.

Enter      FRANCISCO       and BARNARDO ,      two sentinels.

BARNARDO.

Who’s     there?

FRANCISCO.

Nay, answer   me. Stand     and unfold    yourself.

BARNARDO.

Long      live  the  King!

FRANCISCO.

Barnardo?

BARNARDO.

He.

FRANCISCO.

You come      most      carefully upon      your hour.

BARNARDO.

’Tis  now struck     twelve.   Get  thee to    bed, Francisco.

FRANCISCO.

For  this  relief       much     thanks.   ’Tis  bitter      cold,

And I      am  sick at    heart.

BARNARDO.

Have      you had quiet      guard?

FRANCISCO.

Not a     mouse    stirring.

BARNARDO.

Well,       good      night.

If     you do   meet      Horatio   and Marcellus,

The rivals      of    my  watch,    bid  them      make      haste.

Enter      HORATIO    and MARCELLUS .

FRANCISCO.

I      think      I      hear them.     Stand,    ho!  Who       is     there?

HORATIO.

Friends   to    this  ground.

MARCELLUS.

And liegemen to    the  Dane.

FRANCISCO.

Give you good      night.

MARCELLUS.

O,    farewell, honest    soldier,   who hath reliev’d   you?

FRANCISCO.

Barnardo has  my  place.     Give you good-night.

[ Exit. ]

MARCELLUS.

Holla,     Barnardo!

BARNARDO.

Say, what,      is     Horatio   there?

HORATIO.

A     piece      of    him.

BARNARDO.

Welcome,      Horatio.  Welcome,      good      Marcellus.

MARCELLUS.

What,     has  this  thing      appear’d again      tonight?

BARNARDO.

I      have       seen nothing.

MARCELLUS.

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.

HORATIO.

Tush,      tush,       ’twill not  appear.

BARNARDO.

Sit   down      awhile,

And let   us    once       again      assail      your ears,

That are  so    fortified  against   our  story,

What      we   two nights     have       seen.

HORATIO.

Well,       sit    we   down,

And let   us    hear Barnardo speak     of    this.

BARNARDO.

Last night      of    all,

When     yond      same      star that’s      westward       from       the  pole,

Had made     his   course    t’illume   that part of    heaven

Where    now it     burns,     Marcellus      and myself,

The bell  then beating  one—

MARCELLUS.

Peace,    break      thee off.  Look       where     it     comes    again.

Enter      GHOST .

BARNARDO.

In    the  same      figure,    like  the  King that’s      dead.

MARCELLUS.

Thou      art   a     scholar;  speak     to    it,    Horatio.

BARNARDO.

Looks     it     not  like  the  King?      Mark      it,    Horatio.

HORATIO.

Most      like. It     harrows  me  with fear and wonder.

BARNARDO

It     would     be   spoke     to.

MARCELLUS.

Question it,    Horatio.

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.

MARCELLUS.

It     is     offended.

BARNARDO.

See, it     stalks      away.

HORATIO.

Stay!       speak,    speak!    I      charge    thee speak!

[ Exit       GHOST . ]

MARCELLUS.

’Tis  gone,     and will  not  answer.

BARNARDO.

How now,       Horatio!  You tremble  and look pale.

Is     not  this  something     more      than fantasy?

What      think      you on’t?

HORATIO.

Before    my  God,       I      might     not  this  believe

Without  the  sensible  and true avouch

Of   mine      own eyes.

MARCELLUS.

Is     it     not  like  the  King?

HORATIO.

As   thou art   to    thyself:

Such       was the  very armour   he   had on

When     he   th’ambitious  Norway  combated;

So   frown’d   he   once,      when      in    an   angry     parle

He   smote     the  sledded  Polacks   on   the  ice.

’Tis  strange.

MARCELLUS.

Thus       twice      before,   and jump      at    this  dead      hour,

With       martial   stalk hath he   gone      by   our  watch.

HORATIO.

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.

MARCELLUS.

Good      now,       sit    down,     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;

Why such impress  of    shipwrights,   whose    sore task

Does      not  divide     the  Sunday   from       the  week.

What      might     be   toward,   that this  sweaty    haste

Doth       make      the  night      joint-labourer       with the  day:

Who       is’t   that can  inform    me?

HORATIO.

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,

Thereto  prick’d    on   by   a     most      emulate  pride,

Dar’d      to    the  combat;  in    which     our  valiant    Hamlet,

For  so    this  side of    our  known    world      esteem’d him,

Did  slay this  Fortinbras;     who by   a     seal’d     compact,

Well ratified   by   law  and heraldry,

Did  forfeit,    with his   life,  all    those      his   lands

Which    he   stood     seiz’d     of,   to    the  conqueror;

Against   the  which,    a     moiety    competent

Was gaged    by   our  King;      which     had return’d

To   the  inheritance    of    Fortinbras,

Had he   been      vanquisher;   as    by   the  same      cov’nant

And carriage  of    the  article     design’d,

His  fell   to    Hamlet.  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,

For  food       and diet, to    some      enterprise

That hath a     stomach in’t; which     is     no   other,

As   it     doth       well appear   unto our  state,

But  to    recover   of    us    by   strong    hand

And terms     compulsatory,      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 rummage      in    the  land.

BARNARDO.

I      think      it     be   no   other      but  e’en so:

Well may it     sort that this  portentous    figure

Comes    armed    through  our  watch     so    like  the  King

That was and is     the  question of    these      wars.

HORATIO.

A     mote      it     is     to    trouble   the  mind’s    eye.

In    the  most      high and palmy     state       of    Rome,

A     little ere  the  mightiest Julius      fell,

The graves    stood     tenantless      and the  sheeted  dead

Did  squeak   and gibber    in    the  Roman   streets;

As   stars with trains      of    fire  and dews      of    blood,

Disasters in    the  sun; and the  moist      star,

Upon      whose    influence Neptune’s     empire   stands,

Was sick almost    to    doomsday     with eclipse.

And even       the  like  precurse of    fierce      events,

As   harbingers     preceding      still  the  fates

And prologue to    the  omen     coming   on,

Have      heaven   and earth      together demonstrated

Unto       our  climatures     and countrymen.

Re-enter GHOST .

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     there      be   any  good      thing      to    be   done,

That may to    thee do   ease,      and grace      to    me,

Speak     to    me.

If     thou art   privy       to    thy  country’s fate,

Which,    happily,  foreknowing  may avoid,

O    speak!

Or   if     thou hast uphoarded    in    thy  life

Extorted treasure  in    the  womb     of    earth,

For  which,    they say, you spirits     oft   walk in    death,

Speak     of    it.    Stay,       and speak!

[ The      cock crows. ]

Stop it,    Marcellus!

MARCELLUS.

Shall       I      strike      at    it     with my  partisan?

HORATIO.

Do,  if     it     will  not  stand.

BARNARDO.

’Tis  here!

HORATIO.

’Tis  here!

[ Exit       GHOST . ]

MARCELLUS.

’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.

BARNARDO.

It     was about     to    speak,    when      the  cock crew.

HORATIO.

And then it     started,   like  a     guilty      thing

Upon      a     fearful    summons.     I      have       heard

The cock,      that is     the  trumpet  to    the  morn,

Doth       with his   lofty and shrill-sounding     throat

Awake    the  god of    day; and at    his   warning,

Whether in    sea  or    fire, in    earth      or    air,

Th’extravagant     and erring     spirit       hies

To   his   confine.  And of    the  truth       herein

This present   object     made     probation.

MARCELLUS.

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       dare 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.

HORATIO.

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 tonight

Unto       young    Hamlet;  for   upon      my  life,

This spirit,      dumb     to    us,   will  speak     to    him.

Do   you consent  we   shall acquaint him with it,

As   needful   in    our  loves,     fitting     our  duty?

MARCELLUS.

Let’s do’t, I      pray,       and I      this  morning know

Where    we   shall find him most      conveniently.

[ Exeunt. ]

SCENE    II.     Elsinore. A     room      of    state       in    the  Castle.

Enter      Claudius KING    of    Denmark,      Gertrude the  QUEEN,       HAMLET, POLONIUS, LAERTES,   VOLTEMAND,

CORNELIUS,  LORDS   and ATTENDANT .

KING.

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,

Th’imperial    jointress to    this  warlike   state, Have    we,  as    ’twere       with a     defeated joy,

With       one auspicious     and one 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,

Colleagued    with this  dream    of    his   advantage,

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.

Now       for   ourself    and for   this  time of    meeting:

Thus       much     the  business is:    we   have       here writ

To   Norway,  uncle      of    young    Fortinbras,

Who,      impotent and bed-rid,  scarcely  hears

Of   this  his   nephew’s       purpose, to    suppress

His  further    gait herein;    in    that the  levies,

The lists, and full  proportions   are  all    made

Out of    his   subject:  and we   here dispatch

You, good      Cornelius,      and you, Voltemand,

For  bearers   of    this  greeting to    old  Norway,

Giving    to    you no   further    personal power

To   business with the  King,      more      than the  scope

Of   these      dilated    articles   allow.

Farewell; and let   your haste      commend      your duty.

CORNELIUS   and VOLTEMAND.

In    that, and all    things,    will  we   show      our  duty.

KING.

We  doubt     it     nothing: heartily   farewell.

[ Exeunt  VOLTEMAND     and CORNELIUS . ]

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 lose your voice.     What      wouldst  thou beg, Laertes,

That shall not  be   my  offer,      not  thy  asking?

The head      is     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?

LAERTES.

Dread     my  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.

KING.

Have      you your father’s   leave?     What      says Polonius?

POLONIUS.

He   hath,      my  lord, wrung    from       me  my  slow leave

By   laboursome   petition; and at    last

Upon      his   will  I      seal’d     my  hard consent.

I      do   beseech you give him leave      to    go.

KING.

Take       thy  fair  hour,      Laertes;  time be   thine,

And thy  best graces    spend     it     at    thy  will!

But  now,       my  cousin    Hamlet,  and my  son—

HAMLET.

[ Aside. ] A     little more      than kin,  and less than kind.

KING.

How is     it     that the  clouds    still  hang      on   you?

HAMLET.

Not so,   my  lord, I      am  too  much     i’     the  sun.

QUEEN.

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.

HAMLET.

Ay,  madam,  it     is     common.

QUEEN.

If     it     be,

Why seems    it     so    particular       with thee?

HAMLET.

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    forc’d     breath,

No,  nor  the  fruitful    river in    the  eye,

Nor the  dejected haviour   of    the  visage,

Together with all    forms,     moods,   shows     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.

KING.

’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    persevere

In    obstinate condolement is     a     course

Of   impious  stubbornness. ’Tis  unmanly grief,

It     shows     a     will  most      incorrect to    heaven,

A     heart      unfortified,    a     mind      impatient,

An   understanding      simple    and unschool’d;

For  what       we   know      must      be,  and is     as    common

As   any  the  most      vulgar     thing      to    sense,

Why should    we   in    our  peevish  opposition

Take       it     to    heart?     Fie,  ’tis   a     fault to    heaven, A      fault       against   the  dead,      a     fault to    nature,

To   reason    most      absurd,   whose    common theme

Is     death     of    fathers,   and who still  hath cried,

From      the  first corse      till   he   that died today,

‘This must      be   so.’  We  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,

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.

QUEEN.

Let  not  thy  mother   lose her  prayers,  Hamlet.

I      pray thee stay with us;   go   not  to    Wittenberg.

HAMLET.

I      shall in    all    my  best obey       you, madam.

KING.

Why,      ’tis   a     loving     and a     fair  reply.

Be   as    ourself    in    Denmark.      Madam,  come;

This gentle    and unforc’d accord    of    Hamlet

Sits  smiling   to    my  heart;     in    grace      whereof,

No   jocund    health    that Denmark drinks     today

But  the  great      cannon   to    the  clouds    shall tell,

And the  King’s     rouse      the  heaven   shall bruit       again,

Re-speaking  earthly    thunder. Come     away.

[ Exeunt  all    but  HAMLET . ]

HAMLET.

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!       O    God!

How weary,    stale,      flat, and unprofitable

Seem      to    me  all    the  uses of    this  world!

Fie   on’t! Oh  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  followed 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 mine      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.

Enter      HORATIO,    MARCELLUS and BARNARDO .

HORATIO.

Hail to    your lordship!

HAMLET.

I      am  glad to    see  you well:

Horatio,  or    I      do   forget     myself.

HORATIO.

The same,     my  lord,

And your poor       servant   ever.

HAMLET.

Sir,  my  good      friend;

I’ll    change   that name     with you:

And what       make      you from       Wittenberg,   Horatio?—

Marcellus?

MARCELLUS.

My  good      lord.

HAMLET.

I      am  very glad to    see  you.—Good   even,      sir.—

But  what,      in    faith,      make      you from       Wittenberg?

HORATIO.

A     truant     disposition,    good      my  lord.

HAMLET.

I      would     not  hear your enemy    say  so;

Nor shall you do   my  ear  that violence,

To   make      it     truster    of    your own report

Against   yourself. I      know      you are  no   truant.

But  what       is     your affair      in    Elsinore?

We’ll       teach      you to    drink      deep      ere  you depart.

HORATIO.

My  lord, I      came      to    see  your father’s   funeral.

HAMLET.

I      prithee   do   not  mock      me, fellow-student.

I      think      it     was to    see  my  mother’s wedding.

HORATIO.

Indeed,   my  lord, it     follow’d  hard upon.

HAMLET.

Thrift,     thrift,      Horatio!  The funeral   bak’d      meats

Did  coldly     furnish    forth       the  marriage tables.

Would    I      had met my  dearest   foe  in    heaven

Or   ever I      had seen that day, Horatio.

My  father,—methinks I      see  my  father.

HORATIO.

Where,   my  lord?

HAMLET.

In    my  mind’s    eye, Horatio.

HORATIO.

I      saw him once;      he   was a     goodly    king.

HAMLET.

He   was a     man,      take him for   all    in    all,

I      shall not  look upon      his   like  again.

HORATIO.

My  lord, I      think      I      saw him yesternight.

HAMLET.

Saw?      Who?

HORATIO.

My  lord, the  King your father.

HAMLET.

The King my  father!

HORATIO.

Season   your admiration    for   a     while

With       an   attent     ear, till   I      may deliver

Upon      the  witness   of    these      gentlemen

This marvel    to    you.

HAMLET.

For  God’s     love let   me  hear.

HORATIO.

Two nights     together had these      gentlemen,

Marcellus      and Barnardo,      on   their watch

In    the  dead      waste     and middle    of    the  night,

Been      thus encounter’d.  A     figure     like  your father,

Armed    at    point      exactly,   cap-à-pie,

Appears  before    them,     and with solemn   march

Goes      slow and stately    by   them:     thrice     he   walk’d

By   their oppress’d      and fear-surprised      eyes,

Within    his   truncheon’s   length;   whilst     they,       distill’d

Almost   to    jelly with the  act  of    fear,

Stand     dumb,    and speak     not  to    him. 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, both       in    time,

Form      of    the  thing,     each       word      made     true and good,

The apparition     comes.   I      knew      your father;

These     hands     are  not  more      like.

HAMLET.

But  where     was this?

MARCELLUS.

My  lord, upon      the  platform where     we   watch.

HAMLET.

Did  you not  speak     to    it?

HORATIO.

My  lord, I      did;

But  answer   made     it     none:     yet  once       methought

It     lifted      up   it     head,      and did  address

Itself       to    motion,  like  as    it     would     speak.

But  even       then the  morning cock crew       loud,

And at    the  sound     it     shrunk    in    haste      away,

And vanish’d from       our  sight.

HAMLET.

’Tis  very strange.

HORATIO.

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.

HAMLET.

Indeed,   indeed,   sirs, but  this  troubles  me.

Hold       you the  watch     tonight?

Mar. and BARNARDO.

We  do,  my  lord.

HAMLET.

Arm’d,    say  you?

Both.

Arm’d,    my  lord.

HAMLET.

From      top  to    toe?

BOTH.

My  lord, from       head      to    foot.

HAMLET.

Then      saw you not  his   face?

HORATIO.

O    yes, my  lord, he   wore       his   beaver    up.

HAMLET.

What,     look’d     he   frowningly?

HORATIO.

A     countenance more      in    sorrow    than in    anger.

HAMLET.

Pale,       or    red?

HORATIO.

Nay, very pale.

HAMLET.

And fix’d his   eyes upon      you?

HORATIO.

Most      constantly.

HAMLET.

I      would     I      had been      there.

HORATIO.

It     would     have       much     amaz’d   you.

HAMLET.

Very like, very like. Stay’d     it     long?

HORATIO.

While     one with moderate      haste      might     tell  a     hundred.

MARCELLUS  and BARNARDO.

Longer,   longer.

HORATIO.

Not when      I      saw’t.

HAMLET.

His  beard     was grizzled, no?

HORATIO.

It     was, as    I      have       seen it     in    his   life,

A     sable      silver’d.

HAMLET.

I      will  watch     tonight;

Perchance     ’twill walk again.

HORATIO.

I      warrant  you it     will.

HAMLET.

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 tonight,

Give it     an   understanding,     but  no   tongue.

I      will  requite   your loves.     So,  fare ye    well.

Upon      the  platform ’twixt      eleven    and twelve,

I’ll    visit you.

ALL.

Our duty to    your honour.

HAMLET.

Your       loves,     as    mine      to    you: farewell.

[ Exeunt  HORATIO,    MARCELLUS and BARNARDO . ]

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.

[ Exit. ]

SCENE    III.    A     room      in    Polonius’s      house.

Enter      LAERTES      and OPHELIA .

LAERTES.

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.

OPHELIA.

Do   you doubt     that?

LAERTES.

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.

OPHELIA.

No   more      but  so?

LAERTES.

Think      it     no   more.

For  nature    crescent does       not  grow      alone

In    thews     and bulk;       but  as    this  temple   waxes,

The inward    service    of    the  mind      and soul

Grows     wide       withal.    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    unvalu’d persons  do,

Carve     for   himself;  for   on   his   choice    depends

The sanctity  and health    of    this  whole     state;

And therefore must      his   choice    be   circumscrib’d

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.

The chariest  maid      is     prodigal enough

If     she  unmask  her  beauty    to    the  moon.

Virtue     itself scopes    not  calumnious    strokes:

The canker    galls the  infants    of    the  spring

Too oft   before    their buttons  be   disclos’d,

And in    the  morn      and liquid      dew of    youth

Contagious    blastments    are  most      imminent.

Be   wary       then,      best safety     lies  in    fear.

Youth     to    itself rebels,    though   none      else near.

OPHELIA.

I      shall th’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;

Whilst     like  a     puff’d     and reckless  libertine

Himself   the  primrose path of    dalliance treads,

And recks      not  his   own rede.

LAERTES.

O,    fear me  not.

I      stay too  long.      But  here my  father     comes.

Enter      POLONIUS .

A     double   blessing  is     a     double   grace;

Occasion smiles     upon      a     second   leave.

POLONIUS.

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 you.

[ Laying  his   hand      on   LAERTES’S   head. ]

And these      few  precepts in    thy  memory

Look       thou character.      Give thy  thoughts no   tongue,

Nor any  unproportion’d     thought  his   act.

Be   thou familiar,  but  by   no   means    vulgar.

Those     friends    thou hast, and their adoption tried,

Grapple  them      unto thy  soul with hoops     of    steel;

But  do   not  dull thy  palm      with entertainment

Of   each       new-hatch’d, unfledg’d       comrade.       Beware

Of   entrance to    a     quarrel;  but  being     in,

Bear’t     that th’opposed    may beware   of    thee.

Give every      man thine      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;

And they in    France    of    the  best rank and station

Are  of    a     most      select     and generous       chief       in    that.

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      own self  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.

LAERTES.

Most      humbly   do   I      take my  leave,     my  lord.

POLONIUS.

The time invites    you; go,  your servants tend.

LAERTES.

Farewell, Ophelia, and remember     well

What      I      have       said to    you.

OPHELIA.

’Tis  in    my  memory lock’d,

And you yourself  shall keep       the  key  of    it.

LAERTES.

Farewell.

[ Exit. ]

POLONIUS.

What      is’t,  Ophelia, he   hath said to    you?

OPHELIA.

So   please    you, something     touching the  Lord Hamlet.

POLONIUS.

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.

OPHELIA.

He   hath,      my  lord, of    late made     many      tenders

Of   his   affection to    me.

POLONIUS.

Affection!      Pooh!     You speak     like  a     green     girl,

Unsifted in    such perilous  circumstance.

Do   you believe   his   tenders,  as    you call  them?

OPHELIA.

I      do   not  know,     my  lord, what       I      should    think.

POLONIUS.

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,

Roaming it     thus,—you’ll  tender    me  a     fool.

OPHELIA.

My  lord, he   hath importun’d    me  with love

In    honourable   fashion.

POLONIUS.

Ay,  fashion   you may call  it;    go   to,   go   to.

OPHELIA.

And hath given      countenance to    his   speech,  my  lord,

With       almost    all    the  holy vows      of    heaven.

POLONIUS.

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,

Even       in    their promise, as    it     is     a-making,

You must      not  take for   fire. 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   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;      for   they are  brokers,

Not of    that dye  which     their investments   show,

But  mere      implorators    of    unholy    suits,

Breathing      like  sanctified      and pious      bawds,

The better     to    beguile.  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.

OPHELIA.

I      shall obey,      my  lord.

[ Exeunt. ]

SCENE    IV.   The platform.

Enter      HAMLET,      HORATIO      and MARCELLUS .

HAMLET.

The air   bites       shrewdly; it     is     very cold.

HORATIO.

It     is     a     nipping  and an   eager     air.

HAMLET.

What      hour       now?

HORATIO.

I      think      it     lacks       of    twelve.

MARCELLUS.

No,  it     is     struck.

HORATIO.

Indeed?  I      heard     it     not. It     then draws     near the  season

Wherein the  spirit       held his   wont      to    walk.

[ A   flourish   of    trumpets,      and ordnance       shot off   within. ]

What      does       this  mean,     my  lord?

HAMLET.

The King doth       wake      tonight   and takes      his   rouse,

Keeps     wassail,  and the  swaggering   upspring reels;

And as    he   drains     his   draughts of    Rhenish  down,

The kettle-drum   and trumpet  thus bray out

The triumph  of    his   pledge.

HORATIO.

Is     it     a     custom?

HAMLET.

Ay   marry     is’t;

And 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.

This heavy-headed      revel       east and west

Makes    us    traduc’d and tax’d       of    other      nations:

They       clepe      us    drunkards,     and with swinish   phrase

Soil  our  addition; and indeed    it     takes

From      our  achievements,      though   perform’d      at    height,

The pith and marrow  of    our  attribute.

So   oft   it     chances  in    particular       men

That for   some      vicious    mole      of    nature    in    them,

As   in    their birth,      wherein  they are  not  guilty,

Since      nature    cannot   choose   his   origin,

By   their o’ergrowth    of    some      complexion,

Oft  breaking down      the  pales      and forts of    reason;

Or   by   some      habit,     that too  much     o’erleavens

The form       of    plausive  manners;—that    these      men,

Carrying, I      say, the  stamp     of    one defect,

Being     Nature’s livery      or    Fortune’s star,—

His  virtues    else,—be they as    pure as    grace,

As   infinite    as    man may undergo,

Shall       in    the  general   censure  take corruption

From      that particular       fault.      The dram      of    evil

Doth       all    the  noble     substance      often      doubt

To   his   own scandal.

HORATIO.

Look,      my  lord, it     comes!

Enter      GHOST .

HAMLET.

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      com’st    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  canoniz’d      bones,    hearsed  in    death,

Have      burst      their cerements;    why the  sepulchre,

Wherein we   saw thee quietly    inurn’d,

Hath       op’d his   ponderous     and marble   jaws

To   cast thee up   again!     What      may this  mean,

That thou,      dead      corse,     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?

[GHOST beckons HAMLET . ]

HORATIO.

It     beckons you to    go   away      with it,

As   if     it     some      impartment   did  desire

To   you alone.

MARCELLUS.

Look       with what       courteous      action

It     waves     you to    a     more      removed ground.

But  do   not  go   with it.

HORATIO.

No,  by   no   means.

HAMLET.

It     will  not  speak;    then will  I      follow     it.

HORATIO.

Do   not, my  lord.

HAMLET.

Why,      what       should    be   the  fear?

I      do   not  set   my  life   at    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.

HORATIO.

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?      Think      of    it.

The very place      puts toys of    desperation,

Without  more      motive,   into every      brain

That looks      so    many      fadoms   to    the  sea

And hears      it     roar beneath.

HAMLET.

It     waves     me  still.

Go   on,  I’ll    follow     thee.

MARCELLUS.

You shall not  go,  my  lord.

HAMLET.

Hold       off   your hands.

HORATIO.

Be   rul’d;      you shall not  go.

HAMLET.

My  fate cries out,

And makes    each       petty      artery     in    this  body

As   hardy     as    the  Nemean lion’s      nerve.

[GHOST beckons. ]

Still  am  I      call’d.     Unhand  me, gentlemen.

[ Breaking      free from       them. ]

By   heaven,  I’ll    make      a     ghost     of    him that lets  me.

I      say, away!—Go    on,  I’ll    follow     thee.

[ Exeunt  GHOST        and HAMLET . ]

HORATIO.

He   waxes     desperate      with imagination.

MARCELLUS.

Let’s follow;    ’tis   not  fit    thus to    obey       him.

HORATIO.

Have      after.      To   what       issue      will  this  come?

MARCELLUS.

Something    is     rotten     in    the  state       of    Denmark.

HORATIO.

Heaven  will  direct     it.

MARCELLUS.

Nay, let’s follow     him.

[ Exeunt. ]

SCENE    V.    A     more      remote   part of    the  Castle.

Enter      GHOST        and HAMLET .

HAMLET.

Whither  wilt  thou lead me? Speak,    I’ll    go   no   further.

GHOST.

Mark      me.

HAMLET.

I      will.

GHOST.

My  hour       is     almost    come,

When     I      to    sulph’rous     and tormenting    flames

Must      render    up   myself.

HAMLET.

Alas, poor       ghost!

GHOST.

Pity me  not, but  lend thy  serious   hearing

To   what       I      shall unfold.

HAMLET.

Speak,    I      am  bound    to    hear.

GHOST.

So   art   thou to    revenge, when      thou shalt       hear.

HAMLET.

What?

GHOST.

I      am  thy  father’s   spirit,

Doom’d  for   a     certain    term       to    walk the  night,

And for   the  day  confin’d  to    fast  in    fires,

Till   the  foul crimes    done      in    my  days of    nature

Are  burnt      and purg’d    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  and combined      locks      to    part,

And each       particular       hair to    stand      on   end

Like quills      upon      the  fretful     porcupine.

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—

HAMLET.

O    God!

GHOST.

Revenge his   foul and most      unnatural      murder.

HAMLET.

Murder!

GHOST.

Murder   most      foul, as    in    the  best it     is;

But  this  most      foul, strange,  and unnatural.

HAMLET.

Haste     me  to    know’t,   that I,     with wings     as    swift

As   meditation    or    the  thoughts of    love

May sweep    to    my  revenge.

GHOST.

I      find thee apt;

And duller     shouldst thou be   than the  fat   weed

That rots itself in    ease on   Lethe      wharf,

Wouldst thou not  stir  in    this. Now,      Hamlet,  hear.

’Tis  given      out  that, sleeping in    my  orchard,

A     serpent   stung     me; so    the  whole     ear  of    Denmark

Is     by   a     forged    process  of    my  death

Rankly    abus’d;   but  know,     thou noble     youth,

The serpent   that did  sting       thy  father’s   life

Now       wears     his   crown.

HAMLET.

O    my  prophetic      soul!

Mine      uncle!

GHOST.

Ay,  that incestuous,    that adulterate     beast,

With       witchcraft      of    his   wit,  with traitorous      gifts,—

O    wicked    wit,  and gifts,       that have       the  power

So   to    seduce!—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  virtue,     as    it     never      will  be       mov’d, Though     lewdness court      it     in    a     shape     of       heaven;

So   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    of    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    it     doth       posset

And curd,      like  eager     droppings      into milk,

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,    of    queen    at    once       dispatch’d:

Cut  off   even       in    the  blossoms       of    my  sin,

Unhous’led,   disappointed, unanel’d;

No   reckoning      made,     but  sent to    my  account

With       all    my  imperfections on   my  head.

O    horrible! O    horrible! most      horrible!

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 pursu’st  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,     adieu.     Hamlet,  remember     me.

[ Exit. ]

HAMLET.

O    all    you host of    heaven!  O    earth!     What      else?

And shall I      couple    hell? O,    fie!  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      am  sure it     may be   so    in    Denmark.

[ Writing. ]

So,  uncle,     there      you are. Now       to    my  word;

It     is     ‘Adieu,    adieu,     remember     me.’

I      have       sworn’t.

HORATIO      and MARCELLUS.

[ Within. ]       My  lord, my  lord.

MARCELLUS.

[ Within. ]       Lord Hamlet.

HORATIO.

[ Within. ]       Heaven  secure    him.

HAMLET.

So   be   it!

MARCELLUS.

[ Within. ]       Illo,  ho,  ho,  my  lord!

HAMLET.

Hillo,      ho,  ho,  boy! Come,    bird, come.

Enter      HORATIO    and MARCELLUS .

MARCELLUS.

How is’t,  my  noble     lord?

HORATIO.

What      news,     my  lord?

HAMLET.

O,    wonderful!

HORATIO.

Good      my  lord, tell  it.

HAMLET.

No,  you’ll      reveal     it.

HORATIO.

Not I,     my  lord, by   heaven.

MARCELLUS.

Nor I,     my  lord.

HAMLET.

How say  you then,      would     heart      of    man once       think      it?—

But  you’ll      be   secret?

HORATIO      and MARCELLUS.

Ay,  by   heaven,  my  lord.

HAMLET.

There’s   ne’er      a     villain     dwelling in    all    Denmark

But  he’s an   arrant     knave.

HORATIO.

There     needs     no   ghost,     my  lord, come      from       the  grave

To   tell  us    this.

HAMLET.

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 desires   shall point      you,—

For  every      man hath business and desire,

Such       as    it     is;—and  for   my  own poor       part,

Look       you, I’ll    go   pray.

HORATIO.

These     are  but  wild and whirling  words,    my  lord.

HAMLET.

I’m  sorry       they offend    you, heartily;

Yes  faith,      heartily.

HORATIO.

There’s   no   offence,  my  lord.

HAMLET.

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.

HORATIO.

What      is’t,  my  lord?       We  will.

HAMLET.

Never     make      known    what       you have       seen tonight.

HORATIO      and MARCELLUS.

My  lord, we   will  not.

HAMLET.

Nay, but  swear’t.

HORATIO.

In    faith,      my  lord, not  I.

MARCELLUS.

Nor I,     my  lord, in    faith.

HAMLET.

Upon      my  sword.

MARCELLUS.

We  have       sworn,    my  lord, already.

HAMLET.

Indeed,   upon      my  sword,    indeed.

GHOST.

[ Cries     under     the  stage. ]   Swear.

HAMLET.

Ha,  ha   boy, say’st      thou so?  Art   thou there,     truepenny?

Come     on,  you hear this  fellow     in    the  cellarage.

Consent to    swear.

HORATIO.

Propose  the  oath,      my  lord.

HAMLET.

Never     to    speak     of    this  that you have       seen.

Swear     by   my  sword.

GHOST.

[ Beneath. ]    Swear.

HAMLET.

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.

GHOST.

[ Beneath. ]    Swear.

HAMLET.

Well said, old  mole!     Canst     work       i’     th’earth  so    fast?

A     worthy    pioner!   Once      more      remove,  good      friends.

HORATIO.

O    day  and night,     but  this  is     wondrous      strange.

HAMLET.

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  head-shake,

Or   by   pronouncing of    some      doubtful phrase,

As   ‘Well,      we   know’,    or    ‘We could      and if     we   would’,

Or   ‘If    we   list   to    speak’;    or    ‘There     be   and if     they might’,

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.

GHOST.

[ Beneath. ]    Swear.

HAMLET.

Rest,       rest, perturbed      spirit.      So,  gentlemen,

With       all    my  love I      do   commend      me  to    you;

And what       so    poor       a     man as    Hamlet   is

May do   t’express his   love and friending to    you,

God willing,   shall not  lack. 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.

Nay, come,     let’s go   together.

[ Exeunt. ]

ACT II

SCENE    I.     A     room      in    Polonius’s      house.

Enter      POLONIUS and REYNALDO .

POLONIUS.

Give him this  money    and these      notes,     Reynaldo.

REYNALDO.

I      will, my  lord.

POLONIUS.

You shall do   marvellous    wisely,    good      Reynaldo,

Before    you visit him, to    make      inquiry

Of   his   behaviour.

REYNALDO.

My  lord, I      did  intend    it.

POLONIUS.

Marry,    well said; very well said. Look       you, sir,

Enquire  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

Than      your particular       demands will  touch     it.

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?

REYNALDO.

Ay,  very well, my  lord.

POLONIUS.

‘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.

REYNALDO.

As   gaming,  my  lord?

POLONIUS.

Ay,  or    drinking, fencing,  swearing,

Quarrelling,   drabbing.      You may go   so    far.

REYNALDO.

My  lord, that would     dishonour      him.

POLONIUS.

Faith       no,  as    you may season   it     in    the  charge.

You must      not  put  another  scandal  on   him,

That he   is     open      to    incontinency;

That’s     not  my  meaning: but  breathe  his   faults      so    quaintly

That they may seem      the  taints      of    liberty;

The flash and outbreak of    a     fiery mind,

A     savageness    in    unreclaimed  blood,

Of   general   assault.

REYNALDO.

But  my  good      lord—

POLONIUS.

Wherefore     should    you do   this?

REYNALDO.

Ay,  my  lord, I      would     know      that.

POLONIUS.

Marry,    sir,   here’s     my  drift,

And I      believe   it     is     a     fetch      of    warrant.

You laying     these      slight      sullies     on   my  son,

As   ’twere     a     thing      a     little soil’d      i’     th’   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   assur’d 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.

REYNALDO.

Very good,     my  lord.

POLONIUS.

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?

REYNALDO.

At    ‘closes    in    the  consequence.’

At    ‘friend    or    so,’  and ‘gentleman.’

POLONIUS.

At    ‘closes    in    the  consequence’ ay,   marry!

He   closes     with you thus:       ‘I     know      the  gentleman,

I      saw him yesterday,      or    t’other    day,

Or   then,      or    then,      with such and such;      and, as    you say,

There     was he   gaming,  there      o’ertook in’s  rouse,

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,

With       windlasses,    and with assays    of    bias,

By   indirections   find directions      out.

So   by   my  former    lecture    and advice

Shall       you my  son. You have       me, have       you not?

REYNALDO.

My  lord, I      have.

POLONIUS.

God b’    wi’   you, fare you well.

REYNALDO.

Good      my  lord.

POLONIUS.

Observe his   inclination     in    yourself.

REYNALDO.

I      shall,      my  lord.

POLONIUS.

And let   him ply   his   music.

REYNALDO.

Well,       my  lord.

POLONIUS.

Farewell.

[ Exit       REYNALDO . ]

Enter      OPHELIA .

How now,       Ophelia, what’s    the  matter?

OPHELIA.

Alas, my  lord, I      have       been      so    affrighted.

POLONIUS.

With       what,      in    the  name     of    God?

OPHELIA.

My  lord, as    I      was sewing   in    my  chamber,

Lord Hamlet,  with his   doublet  all    unbrac’d,

No   hat  upon      his   head,      his   stockings foul’d,

Ungart’red,    and down-gyved  to    his   ankle,

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.

POLONIUS.

Mad for   thy  love?

OPHELIA.

My  lord, I      do   not  know,     but  truly I      do   fear it.

POLONIUS.

What      said he?

OPHELIA.

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   rais’d      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 help,

And to    the  last  bended  their light on   me.

POLONIUS.

Come,    go   with me. I      will  go   seek the  King.

This is     the  very ecstasy   of    love,

Whose    violent    property fordoes   itself,

And leads      the  will  to    desperate      undertakings,

As   oft   as    any  passion  under     heaven

That does       afflict      our  natures.  I      am  sorry,—

What,     have       you given      him any  hard words     of    late?

OPHELIA.

No,  my  good      lord; but  as    you did  command,

I      did  repel      his   letters     and denied

His  access    to    me.

POLONIUS.

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!

It     seems    it     is     as    proper    to    our  age

To   cast beyond   ourselves in    our  opinions

As   it     is     common for   the  younger sort

To   lack discretion.     Come,    go   we   to    the  King.

This must      be   known,   which,    being     kept close,     might       move

More      grief to    hide than hate to    utter       love.

[ Exeunt. ]

SCENE    II.     A     room      in    the  Castle.

Enter      KING,    QUEEN,  ROSENCRANTZ,    GUILDENSTERN   and ATTENDANTS .

KING.

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;     so    I      call  it,

Since      nor  th’exterior      nor  the  inward    man

Resembles     that it     was. What      it     should    be,

More      than his   father’s   death,    that thus hath put  him

So   much     from       th’understanding  of    himself,

I      cannot   dream    of.   I      entreat   you both

That,      being     of    so    young    days brought  up   with him,

And since      so    neighbour’d  to    his   youth     and humour,

That you vouchsafe      your rest here in    our  court

Some     little time,      so    by   your companies

To   draw       him on   to    pleasures       and to    gather,

So   much     as    from       occasion you may glean,

Whether aught     to    us    unknown afflicts    him thus

That,      open’d,   lies  within     our  remedy.

QUEEN.

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.

ROSENCRANTZ.

Both       your majesties

Might,    by   the  sovereign      power     you have       of    us,

Put  your dread     pleasures       more      into command

Than      to    entreaty.

GUILDENSTERN.

We  both       obey,

And here give up   ourselves,      in    the  full  bent,

To   lay   our  service    freely      at    your feet

To   be   commanded.

KING.

Thanks,  Rosencrantz  and gentle    Guildenstern.

QUEEN.

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.

GUILDENSTERN.

Heavens make      our  presence and our  practices

Pleasant and helpful    to    him.

QUEEN.

Ay,  amen.

[ Exeunt  ROSENCRANTZ,  GUILDENSTERN   and some      ATTENDANTS . ]

Enter      POLONIUS .

POLONIUS.

Th’ambassadors   from       Norway,  my  good      lord,

Are  joyfully   return’d.

KING.

Thou      still  hast been      the  father     of    good      news.

POLONIUS.

Have      I,     my  lord?       Assure    you, 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,—or      else this  brain      of    mine

Hunts     not  the  trail of    policy     so    sure

As   it     hath us’d to    do—that I      have       found

The very cause     of    Hamlet’s lunacy.

KING.

O    speak     of    that, that do   I      long to    hear.

POLONIUS.

Give first admittance    to    th’ambassadors;

My  news      shall be   the  fruit to    that great      feast.

KING.

Thyself   do   grace      to    them,     and bring      them      in.

[ Exit       POLONIUS . ]

He   tells me, my  sweet     queen,    that he   hath found

The head      and source    of    all    your son’s      distemper.

QUEEN.

I      doubt     it     is     no   other      but  the  main,

His  father’s   death     and our  o’erhasty marriage.

KING.

Well,       we   shall sift   him.

Enter      POLONIUS with VOLTEMAND     and CORNELIUS .

Welcome,      my  good      friends!

Say, Voltemand,   what       from       our  brother   Norway?

VOLTEMAND.

Most      fair  return     of    greetings       and desires.

Upon      our  first, he   sent out  to    suppress

His  nephew’s       levies,     which     to    him appear’d

To   be   a     preparation   ’gainst    the  Polack;

But  better     look’d     into, he   truly found

It     was against   your Highness;      whereat  griev’d,

That so    his   sickness, age, and impotence

Was falsely     borne     in    hand,     sends     out  arrests

On  Fortinbras;     which     he,  in    brief,      obeys,

Receives rebuke    from       Norway;  and in    fine,

Makes    vow before    his   uncle      never      more

To   give th’assay  of    arms       against   your Majesty.

Whereon old  Norway,  overcome      with joy,

Gives      him three      thousand       crowns   in    annual    fee,

And his   commission   to    employ   those      soldiers

So   levied     as    before,   against   the  Polack:

With       an   entreaty, herein    further    shown,

[ Gives    a     paper. ]

That it     might     please    you to    give quiet      pass Through your       dominions     for   this  enterprise,

On  such regards   of    safety     and allowance

As   therein   are  set   down.

KING.

It     likes us    well;

And at    our  more      consider’d     time we’ll read,

Answer,  and think      upon      this  business.

Meantime      we   thank     you for   your well-took      labour.

Go   to    your rest, at    night      we’ll feast       together:.

Most      welcome home.

[ Exeunt  VOLTEMAND     and CORNELIUS . ]

POLONIUS.

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.

QUEEN.

More      matter,   with less art.

POLONIUS.

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.       Perpend,

I      have       a     daughter—have   whilst     she  is     mine—

Who       in    her  duty and obedience,    mark,

Hath       given      me  this. Now       gather,   and surmise.

[ Reads. ]

To   the  celestial, and my  soul’s     idol, the  most      beautified       Ophelia—

That’s     an   ill     phrase,   a     vile  phrase;   ‘beautified’    is     a     vile phrase:   but  you shall hear.

[ Reads. ]

these;     in    her  excellent white      bosom,   these,     &c.

QUEEN.

Came     this  from       Hamlet   to    her?

POLONIUS.

Good      madam,  stay awhile;   I      will  be   faithful.

[ Reads. ]

Doubt     thou the  stars are  fire,

                                   Doubt     that the  sun  doth       move,

                     Doubt     truth       to    be   a     liar,

                                   But  never      doubt     I      love.

O    dear Ophelia, I      am  ill     at    these      numbers.       I      have       not  art   to    reckon    my  groans.

But  that I      love thee best,       O    most      best,       believe   it.       Adieu.

              Thine      evermore,      most      dear lady, whilst     this  machine       is     to    him,                                   HAMLET.

This in    obedience     hath my  daughter show’d   me;

And more      above,    hath his   solicitings,

As   they fell   out  by   time,      by   means,   and place,

All   given      to    mine      ear.

KING.

But  how hath she  receiv’d  his   love?

POLONIUS.

What      do   you think      of    me?

KING.

As   of    a     man faithful   and honourable.

POLONIUS.

I      would     fain prove     so.   But  what       might     you think,

When     I      had seen this  hot  love on   the  wing,

As   I      perceiv’d 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 play’d     the  desk or    table-book,

Or   given      my  heart      a     winking, mute      and dumb,

Or   look’d     upon      this  love with idle  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.’  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   wail for.

KING.

Do   you think      ’tis   this?

QUEEN.

It     may be,  very likely.

POLONIUS.

Hath       there      been      such a     time,      I’d   fain know      that,

That I      have       positively said ‘’Tis so,’

When     it     prov’d    otherwise?

KING.

Not that I      know.

POLONIUS.

Take       this  from       this, if     this  be   otherwise.

[ Points   to    his   head      and shoulder. ]

If     circumstances       lead me, I      will  find

Where    truth       is     hid, though   it     were       hid  indeed

Within    the  centre.

KING.

How may we   try   it     further?

POLONIUS.

You know      sometimes    he   walks      four hours     together

Here       in    the  lobby.

QUEEN.

So   he   does       indeed.

POLONIUS.

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.

KING.

We  will  try   it.

Enter      HAMLET,     reading.

QUEEN.

But  look where     sadly      the  poor       wretch    comes    reading.

POLONIUS.

Away,     I      do   beseech you, both       away

I’ll    board     him presently.      O,    give me  leave.

[ Exeunt  KING,    QUEEN and ATTENDANTS . ]

How does       my  good      Lord Hamlet?

HAMLET.

Well,       God-a-mercy.

POLONIUS.

Do   you know      me, my  lord?

HAMLET.

Excellent well. You’re    a     fishmonger.

POLONIUS.

Not I,     my  lord.

HAMLET.

Then      I      would     you were       so    honest    a     man.

POLONIUS.

Honest,  my  lord?

HAMLET.

Ay   sir, to  be  honest, as  this       world    goes,    is   to  be  one man      picked  out of  ten thousand.

POLONIUS.

That’s     very true, my  lord.

HAMLET.

For  if     the  sun  breed     maggots in    a     dead      dog, being     a       good      kissing    carrion,—

Have      you a     daughter?

POLONIUS.

I      have,      my  lord.

HAMLET.

Let  her not walk      i’    th’ sun.      Conception  is   a    blessing,       but not as  your      daughter may     conceive. Friend,    look to’t.

POLONIUS.

How say  you by   that?      [ Aside. ] 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?

HAMLET.

Words,   words,    words.

POLONIUS.

What      is     the  matter,   my  lord?

HAMLET.

Between who?

POLONIUS.

I      mean     the  matter    that you read,      my  lord.

HAMLET.

Slanders, sir.   For  the  satirical  slave      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  you yourself, sir,   should    be   old  as    I      am, if       like  a     crab you could      go   backward.

POLONIUS.

[ Aside. ] Though  this  be   madness,       yet  there      is     a     method       in’t.—

Will you walk out  of    the  air,  my  lord?

HAMLET.

Into my  grave?

POLONIUS.

Indeed,   that is     out  o’    the  air.  [ Aside. ] How pregnant sometimes       his   replies    are! A happiness  that      often    madness      hits       on, which   reason  and       sanity   could    not so prosperously be   delivered of.   I      will  leave      him and suddenly       contrive  the  means of meeting between him and my  daughter.

My  honourable   lord, I      will  most      humbly   take my  leave      of       you.

HAMLET.

You cannot, sir, take      from     me anything      that      I     will more      willingly part      withal, except      my  life,  except    my  life,       except    my  life.

POLONIUS.

Fare you well, my  lord.

HAMLET.

These     tedious   old  fools.

Enter      ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN .

POLONIUS.

You go   to    seek the  Lord Hamlet;  there      he   is.

ROSENCRANTZ.

[ To Polonius. ]     God save you, sir.

[ Exit       POLONIUS . ]

GUILDENSTERN.

My  honoured      lord!

ROSENCRANTZ.

My  most      dear lord!

HAMLET.

My  excellent      good    friends! How     dost      thou,    Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz.

Good      lads, how do   ye    both?

ROSENCRANTZ.

As   the  indifferent     children  of    the  earth.

GUILDENSTERN.

Happy    in    that we   are  not  over-happy;

On  Fortune’s cap  we   are  not  the  very button.

HAMLET.

Nor the  soles      of    her  shoe?

ROSENCRANTZ.

Neither,  my  lord.

HAMLET.

Then      you live  about     her  waist,     or    in    the  middle    of    her       favours?

GUILDENSTERN.

Faith,      her  privates  we.

HAMLET.

In    the  secret     parts      of    Fortune? O,    most      true; she  is     a       strumpet.      What’s    the  news?

ROSENCRANTZ.

None,     my  lord, but  that the  world’s   grown    honest.

HAMLET.

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?

GUILDENSTERN.

Prison,    my  lord?

HAMLET.

Denmark’s     a     prison.

ROSENCRANTZ.

Then      is     the  world      one.

HAMLET.

A     goodly    one; in    which     there      are  many      confines, wards,       and dungeons,     Denmark being     one o’    th’   worst.

ROSENCRANTZ.

We  think      not  so,   my  lord.

HAMLET.

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.

ROSENCRANTZ.

Why,      then your ambition makes    it     one; ’tis   too  narrow   for   your       mind.

HAMLET.

O    God,     I     could    be  bounded      in   a    nutshell,      and       count    myself   a    king      of  infinite space,      were       it       not  that I      have       bad dreams.

GUILDENSTERN.

Which    dreams,  indeed,   are  ambition;       for   the  very substance       of    the  ambitious      is merely the  shadow  of    a     dream.

HAMLET.

A     dream    itself is     but  a     shadow.

ROSENCRANTZ.

Truly,      and I      hold ambition of    so    airy  and light a     quality    that       it     is     but  a     shadow’s shadow.

HAMLET.

Then      are our beggars bodies, and       our monarchs    and       outstretch’d   heroes  the beggars’ shadows. Shall       we   to    th’  court?       For, by   my  fay,  I      cannot   reason.

ROSENCRANTZ     and GUILDENSTERN.

We’ll       wait upon      you.

HAMLET.

No   such matter.   I      will  not  sort you with the  rest of    my  servants;       for,  to    speak     to you    like  an   honest    man,      I      am  most       dreadfully      attended.      But, in    the  beaten   way of friendship,       what       make      you at    Elsinore?

ROSENCRANTZ.

To   visit you, my  lord, no   other      occasion.

HAMLET.

Beggar   that      I     am,       I     am even     poor     in   thanks; but  I     thank    you.      And      sure,     dear friends, my thanks  are  too dear      a    halfpenny.   Were    you       not sent      for?       Is   it   your own     inclining?     Is   it   a    free       visitation?      Come,   deal      justly    with      me.       Come,   come; nay,     speak.

GUILDENSTERN.

What      should    we   say, my  lord?

HAMLET.

Why,      anything.     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.

ROSENCRANTZ.

To   what       end, my  lord?

HAMLET.

That you must      teach      me. But  let   me  conjure   you, by   the       rights     of    our  fellowship, by the consonancy of  our youth,   by   the obligation    of  our ever-preserved   love, and      by   what       more      dear a     better     proposer could      charge    you withal,       be   even       and direct      with me, whether  you were       sent for       or    no.

ROSENCRANTZ.

[ To Guildenstern. ]      What      say  you?

HAMLET.

[ Aside. ] Nay, then I      have       an   eye  of    you. If     you love me, hold       not  off.

GUILDENSTERN.

My  lord, we   were       sent for.

HAMLET.

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    exercises;       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     man!      How noble     in       reason?  How infinite    in    faculties, 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.

ROSENCRANTZ.

My  lord, there      was no   such stuff in    my  thoughts.

HAMLET.

Why did  you laugh     then,      when      I      said ‘Man      delights  not       me’?

ROSENCRANTZ.

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.

HAMLET.

He   that plays      the  king shall be   welcome,—his      Majesty  shall have       tribute    of    me; the   adventurous  knight    shall use  his   foil  and       target;    the  lover       shall not  sigh gratis, the      humorous     man       shall end his   part in    peace;    the  clown     shall make      those       laugh whose  lungs      are  tickle      a’    th’   sere; and the  lady shall       say  her  mind      freely,     or    the blank verse      shall halt for’t. What       players   are  they?

ROSENCRANTZ.

Even       those      you were       wont      to    take such delight   in—the       tragedians     of    the  city.

HAMLET.

How chances it   they      travel?  Their     residence,    both     in   reputation     and       profit,   was better    both       ways.

ROSENCRANTZ.

I      think      their inhibition       comes    by   the  means    of    the  late       innovation.

HAMLET.

Do   they hold the  same      estimation     they did  when      I      was in       the  city? Are  they so followed?

ROSENCRANTZ.

No,  indeed,   they are  not.

HAMLET.

How comes    it?    Do   they grow      rusty?

ROSENCRANTZ.

Nay, their     endeavour   keeps    in   the wonted pace;    but there      is,  sir, an  ayry      of children,  little      eyases, that      cry   out on the top of  question,     and       are most tyrannically clapped  for’t.     These   are now      the fashion, and       so  berattle  the common stages—so   they      call them—that  many    wearing  rapiers  are afraid    of goose-quills   and dare scarce       come      thither.

HAMLET.

What,     are  they children? Who       maintains      ’em?       How are  they       escoted? Will they pursue   the  quality    no   longer    than they can       sing?      Will they not  say  afterwards,    if they     should  grow     themselves    to  common      players—as  it   is   most     like,      if     their means are  no   better—their writers    do   them      wrong       to    make      them      exclaim   against their  own succession?

ROSENCRANTZ.

Faith,      there      has  been      much     to    do   on   both       sides;       and the  nation    holds      it     no   sin   to tarre   them    to  controversy.  There    was       for a    while,    no money  bid for argument

unless    the  poet and the  player     went       to    cuffs       in    the       question.

HAMLET.

Is’t   possible?

GUILDENSTERN.

O,    there      has  been      much     throwing about     of    brains.

HAMLET.

Do   the  boys       carry       it     away?

ROSENCRANTZ.

Ay,  that they do,  my  lord. Hercules and his   load too.

HAMLET.

It     is   not very      strange; for my uncle    is   King      of  Denmark,      and       those    that      would make mouths at  him       while    my father   lived,    give      twenty, forty,     fifty,      a     hundred ducats  apiece  for his picture  in   little.     ’Sblood, there      is   something   in   this       more than   natural,  if       philosophy    could      find it     out.

[ Flourish of    trumpets within. ]

GUILDENSTERN.

There     are  the  players.

HAMLET.

Gentlemen,   you are  welcome to    Elsinore. Your       hands,    come.       The appurtenance of   welcome is     fashion   and ceremony.     Let       me  comply   with you in    this  garb,      lest my   extent     to    the       players,  which     I      tell  you must      show      fairly       outward,       should    more appear  like  entertainment      than yours.     You are       welcome.       But  my  uncle-father  and aunt-mother are  deceived.

GUILDENSTERN.

In    what,      my  dear lord?

HAMLET.

I      am  but  mad north-north-west. When     the  wind       is     southerly,       I      know      a     hawk      from a    handsaw.

Enter      POLONIUS .

POLONIUS.

Well be   with you, gentlemen.

HAMLET.

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.

ROSENCRANTZ.

Happily  he’s the  second   time come      to    them;     for   they say  an       old  man is     twice      a child.

HAMLET.

I      will  prophesy       he   comes    to    tell  me  of    the  players.  Mark       it.—You  say  right,      sir: for     a     Monday  morning ’twas      so       indeed.

POLONIUS.

My  lord, I      have       news      to    tell  you.

HAMLET.

My  lord, I      have       news      to    tell  you. When     Roscius   was an       actor      in    Rome—

POLONIUS.

The actors     are  come      hither,    my  lord.

HAMLET.

Buzz,      buzz.

POLONIUS.

Upon      my  honour.

HAMLET.

Then      came      each       actor      on   his   ass—

POLONIUS.

The best      actors   in   the world,   either    for tragedy,       comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical,

historical-pastoral,

tragical-historical,

tragical-comical-

historical-pastoral, scene    individable,  or  poem    unlimited.    Seneca   cannot  be  too heavy,   nor Plautus too light,     for the law  of  writ       and       the liberty.  These   are the only men.

HAMLET.

O    Jephthah,      judge     of    Israel,     what       a     treasure  hadst       thou!

POLONIUS.

What      treasure  had he,  my  lord?

HAMLET.

Why—

’One       fair  daughter,      and no   more,

The which     he   loved      passing  well.’

POLONIUS.

[ Aside. ] Still  on   my  daughter.

HAMLET.

Am  I      not  i’     th’   right,      old  Jephthah?

POLONIUS.

If     you call  me  Jephthah,      my  lord, I      have       a     daughter that I       love passing  well.

HAMLET.

Nay, that follows   not.

POLONIUS.

What      follows   then,      my  lord?

HAMLET.

Why,

As   by   lot,  God wot,

and then,      you know,

It     came      to    pass,      as    most      like  it     was.

The first       row       of  the pious    chanson      will show    you       more.    For look      where   my abridgement comes.

Enter      four or    five  PLAYERS .

You are welcome,     masters,       welcome      all. I     am glad      to    see thee      well.      Welcome, good  friends. O,  my old friend!    Thy       face      is   valanc’d since     I     saw       thee      last.

Com’st   thou to    beard     me  in    Denmark?      What,     my  young       lady and mistress! By’r lady, your ladyship is     nearer    to    heaven       than when      I      saw you last, by   the  altitude of      a     chopine.       Pray God your voice,     like  a     piece      of    uncurrent      gold,       be   not  cracked within      the ring.      Masters,       you       are all    welcome.     We’ll     e’en      to’t like French falconers, fly    at       anything we   see. We’ll       have       a     speech   straight.  Come,       give us    a taste    of    your quality.   Come,    a     passionate       speech.

FIRST      PLAYER.

What      speech,  my  lord?

HAMLET.

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. But it   was—as       I     received       it,   and others,  whose   judgments   in   such matters cried       in    the       top  of    mine—an      excellent play, well digested in    the  scenes, set   down      with as    much     modesty as    cunning. I      remember       one said there      were       no sallets in    the  lines to    make      the       matter    savoury, nor  no   matter    in    the  phrase    that

might     indite    the author  of  affectation,  but called   it   an  honest    method,       as wholesome     as    sweet,    and by   very       much     more      handsome     than fine. 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  th’   Hyrcanian      beast,—

It     is     not  so:   it     begins    with Pyrrhus—

The rugged   Pyrrhus,  he   whose    sable      arms,

                     Black      as    his   purpose, did  the  night      resemble

                     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 gules,     horridly  trick’d

                     With       blood     of    fathers,   mothers, daughters,     sons,

                     Bak’d      and impasted with the  parching streets,

                     That lend a     tyrannous      and a     damned light

                     To   their vile  murders. Roasted  in    wrath     and fire,

                     And thus o’ersized with coagulate      gore,

                     With       eyes like  carbuncles,    the  hellish    Pyrrhus

                     Old  grandsire       Priam     seeks.

So,  proceed  you.

POLONIUS.

’Fore       God,       my  lord, well spoken,  with good      accent    and       good      discretion.

FIRST      PLAYER.

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

                     Th’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’     th’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,  forg’d     for   proof      eterne,

                     With       less remorse  than Pyrrhus’  bleeding sword

                     Now       falls on   Priam.

                     Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune! All   you gods,

                     In    general   synod,    take away      her  power;

                     Break      all    the  spokes    and fellies     from       her       wheel,

                     And bowl       the  round     nave       down      the  hill   of       heaven,

                     As   low  as    to    the  fiends.

POLONIUS.

This is     too  long.

HAMLET.

It     shall to    the  barber’s, with your beard.—Prythee   say  on.

He’s for   a     jig   or    a     tale of    bawdry,  or    he   sleeps.

Say  on;  come      to    Hecuba.

FIRST      PLAYER.

But  who,       O    who,       had seen the  mobled  queen,—

HAMLET.

‘The mobled  queen’?

POLONIUS.

That’s     good!     ‘Mobled  queen’    is     good.

FIRST      PLAYER.

Run barefoot up   and down,     threat’ning    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’erteemed    loins,

                     A     blanket,  in    th’alarm of    fear caught   up—

                     Who       this  had seen,      with tongue   in    venom       steep’d,

                     ’Gainst    Fortune’s state       would     treason   have       pronounc’d.

                     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.

POLONIUS.

Look,      where     he   has  not  turn’d     his   colour,    and has  tears       in’s  eyes.      Pray you, no more.

HAMLET.

’Tis  well. I’ll    have       thee speak     out  the  rest of    this  soon.—Good       my  lord, will  you see  the  players   well bestowed?     Do   you hear,       let   them      be   well used;      for   they are the   abstracts and brief       chronicles      of    the  time.      After       your death     you were       better have    a     bad epitaph  than their ill     report     while      you       live.

POLONIUS.

My  lord, I      will  use  them      according      to    their desert.

HAMLET.

God’s     bodikin, man,     better.  Use       every    man      after     his   desert,  and       who      should scape      whipping?    Use       them      after     your      own      honour and       dignity. The       less they deserve,      the  more      merit      is     in    your bounty.  Take       them      in.

POLONIUS.

Come,    sirs.

HAMLET.

Follow    him, friends.   We’ll       hear a     play tomorrow.

[ Exeunt  POLONIUS with all    the  PLAYERS     but  the  First. ]

Dost thou hear me, old  friend?    Can you play The       Murder   of       Gonzago?

FIRST      PLAYER.

Ay,  my  lord.

HAMLET.

We’ll       ha’t tomorrow      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?

FIRST      PLAYER.

Ay,  my  lord.

HAMLET.

Very well. Follow    that lord, and look you mock      him not.

[ Exit       FIRST    PLAYER . ]

[ To Rosencrantz and       Guildenstern]      My good    friends, I’ll  leave      you       till  night.

You are  welcome to    Elsinore.

ROSENCRANTZ.

Good      my  lord.

[ Exeunt  ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN . ]

HAMLET.

Ay,  so,   God b’    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    wan’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’     th’   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!

Oh  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

T’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.

[ Exit. ]

ACT III

SCENE    I.     A     room      in    the  Castle.

Enter      KING,    QUEEN,  POLONIUS,    OPHELIA,       ROSENCRANTZ        and GUILDENSTERN .

KING.

And can  you by   no   drift of    circumstance

Get  from       him why he   puts on   this  confusion,

Grating   so    harshly   all    his   days of    quiet

With       turbulent and dangerous     lunacy?

ROSENCRANTZ.

He   does       confess   he   feels himself   distracted,

But  from       what       cause     he   will  by   no   means    speak.

GUILDENSTERN.

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.

QUEEN.

Did  he   receive   you well?

ROSENCRANTZ.

Most      like  a     gentleman.

GUILDENSTERN.

But  with much     forcing   of    his   disposition.

ROSENCRANTZ.

Niggard  of    question, but  of    our  demands,

Most      free in    his   reply.

QUEEN.

Did  you assay      him to    any  pastime?

ROSENCRANTZ.

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.    They       are  about     the  court,

And, as    I      think,      they have       already   order

This night      to    play before    him.

POLONIUS.

’Tis  most      true;

And he   beseech’d      me  to    entreat   your Majesties

To   hear and see  the  matter.

KING.

With       all    my  heart;     and it     doth       much     content  me

To   hear him so    inclin’d.

Good      gentlemen,    give him a     further    edge,

And drive       his   purpose  on   to    these      delights.

ROSENCRANTZ.

We  shall,      my  lord.

[ Exeunt  ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN . ]

KING.

Sweet     Gertrude,       leave      us    too,

For  we   have       closely    sent for   Hamlet   hither,

That he,  as    ’twere     by   accident, may here

Affront    Ophelia.

Her  father     and myself,   lawful     espials,

Will so    bestow   ourselves that, seeing    unseen,

We  may of    their encounter     frankly    judge,

And gather    by   him, as    he   is     behav’d,

If’t   be   th’affliction    of    his   love or    no

That thus he   suffers    for.

QUEEN.

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.

OPHELIA.

Madam,  I      wish it     may.

[ Exit       QUEEN . ]

POLONIUS.

Ophelia, walk you here.—Gracious,   so    please    you,

We  will  bestow   ourselves.—[ To    Ophelia. ]       Read      on   this book, That show      of    such an   exercise  may colour

Your       loneliness.—We    are  oft   to    blame     in    this,

’Tis  too  much     prov’d,    that with devotion’s     visage

And pious      action     we   do   sugar      o’er

The devil       himself.

KING.

[ Aside. ] O    ’tis   too  true!

How smart     a     lash that speech   doth       give my  conscience!

The harlot’s   cheek,    beautied with plastering      art,

Is     not  more      ugly to    the  thing      that helps      it

Than      is     my  deed      to    my  most      painted  word.

O    heavy     burden!

POLONIUS.

I      hear him coming.  Let’s withdraw,      my  lord.

[ Exeunt  KING    and POLONIUS . ]

Enter      HAMLET .

HAMLET.

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, The       oppressor’s    wrong,    the  proud     man’s     contumely,

The pangs     of    dispriz’d love, the  law’s       delay,

The insolence       of    office,     and the  spurns

That patient   merit      of    the  unworthy       takes,

When     he   himself   might     his   quietus   make

With       a     bare bodkin?  Who       would     these      fardels    bear,

To   grunt      and sweat     under     a     weary     life,

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.

OPHELIA.

Good      my  lord,

How does       your honour   for   this  many      a     day?

HAMLET.

I      humbly   thank     you; well, well, well.

OPHELIA.

My  lord, I      have       remembrances     of    yours

That I      have       longed   long to    re-deliver.

I      pray you, now receive   them.

HAMLET.

No,  not  I.

I      never      gave       you aught.

OPHELIA.

My  honour’d lord, you know      right       well you did,

And with them      words     of    so    sweet     breath    compos’d

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.

HAMLET.

Ha,  ha!  Are  you honest?

OPHELIA.

My  lord?

HAMLET.

Are  you fair?

OPHELIA.

What      means    your lordship?

HAMLET.

That if     you be   honest    and fair, your honesty  should    admit     no       discourse       to    your beauty.

OPHELIA.

Could     beauty,   my  lord, have       better     commerce     than with       honesty?

HAMLET.

Ay,  truly;      for   the  power     of    beauty    will  sooner    transform       honesty  from       what       it     is to a     bawd      than the  force       of    honesty  can  translate beauty    into his   likeness. This was       sometime      a     paradox, but  now the  time gives      it     proof.     I       did  love you once.

OPHELIA.

Indeed,   my  lord, you made     me  believe   so.

HAMLET.

You should  not have     believed       me;       for virtue    cannot  so    inoculate     our old stock but     we   shall relish      of    it.    I       loved      you not.

OPHELIA.

I      was the  more      deceived.

HAMLET.

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     that it     were       better     my mother   had       not borne   me.       I     am very      proud,  revengeful,    ambitious,   with      more offences     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  are  arrant     knaves    all,   believe       none      of    us.   Go   thy ways to    a     nunnery. Where’s  your       father?

OPHELIA.

At    home,    my  lord.

HAMLET.

Let  the  doors     be   shut upon      him, that he   may play the  fool       nowhere but  in’s  own house.    Farewell.

OPHELIA.

O    help him, you sweet     heavens!

HAMLET.

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.

OPHELIA.

O    heavenly powers,  restore   him!

HAMLET.

I      have       heard     of    your paintings too, well enough. God hath       given      you one face, and you       make    yourselves   another.       You      jig, you       amble,  and       you       lisp,      and nickname      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.

[ Exit. ]

OPHELIA.

O,    what       a     noble     mind      is     here o’erthrown!

The courtier’s,      soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue,  sword,

Th’expectancy      and rose of    the  fair  state,

The glass      of    fashion   and the  mould    of    form,

Th’observ’d   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,

T’have    seen what       I      have       seen,      see  what       I      see.

Enter      KING    and POLONIUS .

KING.

Love?     His  affections      do   not  that way tend,

Nor what       he   spake,    though   it     lack’d     form       a     little,

Was not  like  madness.       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,  which     for   to    prevent,

I      have       in    quick      determination

Thus       set   it     down:     he   shall with speed     to    England

For  the  demand of    our  neglected      tribute:

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?

POLONIUS.

It     shall do   well. But  yet  do   I      believe

The origin     and commencement   of    his   grief

Sprung   from       neglected      love. How now,       Ophelia?

You need      not  tell  us    what       Lord Hamlet   said,

We  heard     it     all.   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   plac’d,    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.

KING.

It     shall be   so.

Madness in    great      ones       must      not  unwatch’d     go.

[ Exeunt. ]

SCENE    II.     A     hall  in    the  Castle.

Enter      HAMLET      and certain    PLAYERS .

HAMLET.

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,       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 dumb   shows   and       noise.     I     would   have such    a     fellow     whipped for   o’erdoing       Termagant.    It     out-Herods   Herod.    Pray you avoid      it.

FIRST      PLAYER.

I      warrant  your honour.

HAMLET.

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  observance, that      you o’erstep       not  the  modesty of    nature;   for   anything so    overdone       is       from       the  purpose of     playing,  whose    end, both       at    the       first and now,       was and is,    to    hold as    ’twere     the mirror      up   to  nature;  to  show    virtue    her own      feature, scorn    her  own      image,  and 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.       O,    there      be   players   that I      have       seen play—and       heard others  praise,    and that highly—not   to    speak     it       profanely,      that, neither   having    the accent     of    Christians,       nor  the  gait of    Christian, pagan,    nor  man,      have       so       strutted and   bellowed that I      have       thought  some      of       Nature’s journeymen   had made     men, and       not  made     them       well, they imitated humanity       so    abominably.

FIRST      PLAYER.

I      hope      we   have       reform’d that indifferently   with us,   sir.

HAMLET.

O    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 meantime    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.

[ Exeunt  PLAYERS . ]

Enter      POLONIUS,  ROSENCRANTZ    and GUILDENSTERN .

How now,       my  lord?

Will the  King hear this  piece      of    work?

POLONIUS.

And the  Queen    too, and that presently.

HAMLET.

Bid  the  players   make      haste.

[ Exit       POLONIUS . ]

Will you two help to    hasten    them?

ROSENCRANTZ     and GUILDENSTERN.

We  will, my  lord.

[ Exeunt  ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN . ]

HAMLET.

What      ho,  Horatio!

Enter      HORATIO .

HORATIO.

Here,      sweet     lord, at    your service.

HAMLET.

Horatio,  thou art   e’en as    just  a     man

As   e’er my  conversation cop’d      withal.

HORATIO.

O    my  dear lord.

HAMLET.

Nay, do   not  think      I      flatter;

For  what       advancement may I      hope      from       thee,

That no   revenue  hast, but  thy  good      spirits

To   feed and clothe     thee?      Why should    the  poor       be   flatter’d?

No,  let   the  candied  tongue   lick  absurd    pomp,

And crook      the  pregnant hinges    of    the  knee

Where    thrift       may follow     fawning. 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.   For  thou hast been

As   one, in    suffering all,   that suffers    nothing,

A     man that Fortune’s buffets    and rewards

Hast ta’en      with equal      thanks.   And bles’d     are  those

Whose    blood     and judgment      are  so    well co-mingled

That they are  not  a     pipe for   Fortune’s finger

To   sound     what       stop she  please.   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 tonight   before    the  King.

One scene     of    it     comes    near the  circumstance

Which    I      have       told thee,      of    my  father’s   death.

I      prythee,  when      thou see’st     that act  a-foot,

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.     Give him heedful   note;

For  I      mine      eyes will  rivet to    his   face;

And after we   will  both       our  judgments     join

In    censure  of    his   seeming.

HORATIO.

Well,       my  lord.

If     he   steal aught     the  whilst     this  play is     playing,

And scape     detecting,      I      will  pay  the  theft.

HAMLET.

They       are  coming   to    the  play. I      must      be   idle.

Get  you a     place.

Danish    march.    A     flourish.  Enter      KING,    QUEEN,  POLONIUS,       OPHELIA, ROSENCRANTZ,   GUILDENSTERN   and others.

KING.

How fares       our  cousin    Hamlet?

HAMLET.

Excellent, i’     faith;      of    the  chameleon’s  dish: I      eat  the  air,       promise-crammed:      you cannot    feed capons   so.

KING.

I      have       nothing  with this  answer,  Hamlet;  these      words     are       not  mine.

HAMLET.

No,  nor  mine      now.       [ To Polonius. ]     My  lord, you play’d     once       i’     th’university,  you say?

POLONIUS.

That did  I,     my  lord, and was accounted     a     good      actor.

HAMLET.

What      did  you enact?

POLONIUS.

I      did  enact      Julius      Caesar.   I      was kill’d i’     th’   Capitol.       Brutus    killed      me.

HAMLET.

It     was a     brute      part of    him to    kill   so    capital    a     calf there.       Be   the  players   ready?

ROSENCRANTZ.

Ay,  my  lord; they stay upon      your patience.

QUEEN.

Come     hither,    my  dear Hamlet,  sit    by   me.

HAMLET.

No,  good      mother,  here’s     metal     more      attractive.

POLONIUS.

[ To the  King. ]     O    ho!  do   you mark      that?

HAMLET.

Lady,      shall I      lie    in    your lap?

[ Lying    down      at    OPHELIA’S   feet. ]

OPHELIA.

No,  my  lord.

HAMLET.

I      mean,     my  head      upon      your lap?

OPHELIA.

Ay,  my  lord.

HAMLET.

Do   you think      I      meant    country  matters?

OPHELIA.

I      think      nothing, my  lord.

HAMLET.

That’s     a     fair  thought  to    lie    between maids’    legs.

OPHELIA.

What      is,    my  lord?

HAMLET.

Nothing.

OPHELIA.

You are  merry,    my  lord.

HAMLET.

Who,      I?

OPHELIA.

Ay,  my  lord.

HAMLET.

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’s  two hours.

OPHELIA.

Nay, ’tis   twice      two months,  my  lord.

HAMLET.

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?       Then     there’s  hope     a    great man’s memory       may      outlive    his life half       a    year.     But by’r       lady,     he  must      build churches    then;     or  else      shall     he  suffer    not  thinking on, with      the hobby-horse, whose  epitaph  is     ‘For,       O,    for   O,    the  hobby-horse is     forgot!’

Trumpets       sound.    The dumb     show      enters.

Enter      a     King and a     Queen    very lovingly; the  Queen       embracing     him and he   her.

She kneels,  and       makes   show    of  protestation unto    him.       He takes    her up, and declines his head     upon    her neck.      Lays      him       down    upon    a    bank     of  flowers. She, seeing    him asleep,   leaves     him. Anon      comes    in    a       fellow,    takes      off   his   crown,    kisses

it,    pours     poison    in    the  King’s     ears, and exits.      The Queen       returns,  finds       the  King dead,     and makes    passionate       action.    The Poisoner with some      three      or    four Mutes, comes       in    again,     seeming to    lament   with her. The dead      body       is     carried    away.     The Poisoner woos      the  Queen    with gifts.       She seems    loth and unwilling awhile,   but  in the     end accepts       his   love.

[ Exeunt. ]

OPHELIA.

What      means    this, my  lord?

HAMLET.

Marry,    this  is     miching  mallicho; it     means    mischief.

OPHELIA.

Belike     this  show      imports  the  argument      of    the  play.

Enter      PROLOGUE .

HAMLET.

We  shall know      by   this  fellow:    the  players   cannot   keep       counsel; they’ll     tell  all.

OPHELIA.

Will they tell  us    what       this  show      meant?

HAMLET.

Ay,  or  any       show    that      you’ll    show    him.      Be  not you ashamed     to  show,    he’ll      not shame   to    tell  you what       it     means.

OPHELIA.

You are  naught,  you are  naught:  I’ll    mark      the  play.

PROLOGUE.

For  us,   and for   our  tragedy,

                     Here       stooping to    your clemency,

                     We  beg your hearing  patiently.

HAMLET.

Is     this  a     prologue,      or    the  posy       of    a     ring?

OPHELIA.

’Tis  brief,      my  lord.

HAMLET.

As   woman’s love.

Enter      a     KING    and a     QUEEN .

PLAYER  KING.

Full  thirty      times      hath Phoebus’ cart gone      round

Neptune’s     salt  wash      and Tellus’    orbed     ground,

And thirty      dozen     moons    with borrow’d sheen

About     the  world      have       times      twelve    thirties    been,

Since      love our  hearts,    and Hymen   did  our  hands

Unite      commutual    in    most      sacred    bands.

PLAYER  QUEEN.

So   many      journeys may the  sun  and moon

Make      us    again      count     o’er ere  love be   done.

But, woe is     me, you are  so    sick of    late,

So   far   from       cheer      and from       your former    state,

That I      distrust   you. Yet, though   I      distrust,

Discomfort    you, my  lord, it     nothing  must:

For  women’s fear and love holds      quantity,

In    neither   aught,    or    in    extremity.

Now       what       my  love is,    proof      hath made     you know,

And as    my  love is     siz’d,      my  fear is     so.

Where    love is     great,     the  littlest     doubts   are  fear;

Where    little fears       grow      great,     great      love grows     there.

PLAYER  KING.

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,      belov’d,  and haply      one as    kind

For  husband shalt       thou—

PLAYER  QUEEN.

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.

HAMLET.

[ Aside. ] Wormwood,  wormwood.

PLAYER  QUEEN.

The instances that second   marriage move

Are  base respects of    thrift,      but  none      of    love.

A     second   time I      kill   my  husband dead,

When     second   husband kisses     me  in    bed.

PLAYER  KING.

I      do   believe   you think      what       now you speak;

But  what       we   do   determine,     oft   we   break.

Purpose  is     but  the  slave      to    memory,

Of   violent    birth,      but  poor       validity:

Which    now,       like  fruit unripe,   sticks      on   the  tree,

But  fall   unshaken      when      they mellow   be.

Most      necessary      ’tis   that we   forget

To   pay  ourselves what       to    ourselves is     debt.

What      to    ourselves in    passion  we   propose,

The passion  ending,   doth       the  purpose  lose.

The violence of    either     grief or    joy

Their      own enactures      with themselves    destroy.

Where    joy   most      revels,    grief doth       most      lament;

Grief       joys, joy   grieves,  on   slender   accident.

This world      is     not  for   aye; nor  ’tis   not  strange

That even       our  loves      should    with our  fortunes change,

For  ’tis   a     question left  us    yet  to    prove,

Whether love lead fortune,  or    else fortune   love.

The great      man down,     you mark      his   favourite flies,

The poor       advanc’d makes    friends    of    enemies;

And hitherto  doth       love on   fortune   tend:

For  who not  needs     shall never      lack a     friend,

And who in    want       a     hollow    friend     doth       try,

Directly   seasons  him his   enemy.

But  orderly   to    end where     I      begun,

Our wills and fates       do   so    contrary run

That our  devices   still  are  overthrown.

Our thoughts are  ours,       their ends       none      of    our  own.

So   think      thou wilt  no   second   husband wed,

But  die  thy  thoughts when      thy  first lord is     dead.

PLAYER  QUEEN.

Nor earth      to    me  give food,      nor  heaven   light,

Sport      and repose    lock from       me  day  and night,

To   desperation   turn my  trust and hope,

An   anchor’s cheer      in    prison     be   my  scope,

Each       opposite that blanks    the  face of    joy,

Meet      what       I      would     have       well, and it     destroy!

Both       here and hence     pursue    me  lasting    strife,

If,    once       a     widow,   ever I      be   wife.

HAMLET.

[ To Ophelia. ]       If     she  should    break      it     now.

PLAYER  KING.

’Tis  deeply    sworn.    Sweet,    leave      me  here awhile.

My  spirits     grow      dull, and fain I      would     beguile

The tedious   day  with sleep.

[ Sleeps. ]

PLAYER  QUEEN.

Sleep      rock thy  brain,

And never      come      mischance     between us    twain.

[ Exit. ]

HAMLET.

Madam,  how like  you this  play?

QUEEN.

The lady protests  too  much,     methinks.

HAMLET.

O,    but  she’ll      keep       her  word.

KING.

Have      you heard     the  argument?     Is     there      no   offence   in’t?

HAMLET.

No,  no,  they do   but  jest, poison    in    jest; no   offence   i’     th’       world.

KING.

What      do   you call  the  play?

HAMLET.

The Mousetrap.   Marry,    how?      Tropically.      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  gall’d      jade wince;    our  withers   are       unwrung.

Enter      LUCIANUS .

This is     one Lucianus, nephew  to    the  King.

OPHELIA.

You are  a     good      chorus,   my  lord.

HAMLET.

I      could      interpret between you and your love, if     I      could      see       the  puppets  dallying.

OPHELIA.

You are  keen,      my  lord, you are  keen.

HAMLET.

It     would     cost you a     groaning to    take off   my  edge.

OPHELIA.

Still  better,    and worse.

HAMLET.

So   you       mistake your      husbands.—Begin,     murderer.    Pox,       leave    thy damnable faces,  and begin.     Come,    the  croaking       raven      doth       bellow    for   revenge.

LUCIANUS.

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.

[ Pours   the  poison    into the  sleeper’s ears. ]

HAMLET.

He   poisons him       i’    th’garden     for’s      estate.  His name’s Gonzago.      The       story     is extant,      and written   in    very       choice    Italian.    You shall see  anon      how the  murderer gets       the  love of    Gonzago’s     wife.

OPHELIA.

The King rises.

HAMLET.

What,     frighted  with false fire?

QUEEN.

How fares       my  lord?

POLONIUS.

Give o’er the  play.

KING.

Give me  some      light.      Away.

All.

Lights,    lights,     lights.

[ Exeunt  all    but  HAMLET      and HORATIO . ]

HAMLET.

Why,      let   the  strucken deer go   weep,

The hart ungalled play;

For  some      must      watch,    while      some      must      sleep,

So   runs the  world      away.

Would    not  this, sir,   and a     forest     of    feathers, if     the  rest of       my  fortunes turn Turk with me; with two Provincial      roses      on       my  razed      shoes,    get  me  a     fellowship      in    a cry       of       players,  sir?

HORATIO.

Half a     share.

HAMLET.

A     whole     one, I.

For  thou dost know,     O    Damon   dear,

This realm     dismantled    was

Of   Jove himself,  and now reigns     here

A     very,       very—pajock.

HORATIO.

You might     have       rhymed.

HAMLET.

O    good      Horatio,  I’ll    take the  ghost’s   word      for   a     thousand       pound.   Didst      perceive?

HORATIO.

Very well, my  lord.

HAMLET.

Upon      the  talk  of    the  poisoning?

HORATIO.

I      did  very well note him.

HAMLET.

Ah,  ha!  Come,    some      music.    Come,    the  recorders.

For  if     the  king like  not  the  comedy,

Why then,      belike     he   likes it     not, perdie.

Come,    some      music.

Enter      ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN .

GUILDENSTERN.

Good      my  lord, vouchsafe      me  a     word      with you.

HAMLET.

Sir,  a     whole     history.

GUILDENSTERN.

The King,      sir—

HAMLET.

Ay,  sir,   what       of    him?

GUILDENSTERN.

Is     in    his   retirement,    marvellous    distempered.

HAMLET.

With       drink,      sir?

GUILDENSTERN.

No,  my  lord; rather     with choler.

HAMLET.

Your       wisdom  should    show      itself more      richer     to    signify       this  to    the  doctor,   for   me to     put  him to    his   purgation       would     perhaps  plunge   him into far   more      choler.

GUILDENSTERN.

Good      my  lord, put  your discourse       into some      frame,    and start       not  so    wildly     from my affair.

HAMLET.

I      am  tame,     sir,   pronounce.

GUILDENSTERN.

The Queen    your mother,  in    most      great      affliction of    spirit,       hath sent me  to    you.

HAMLET.

You are  welcome.

GUILDENSTERN.

Nay, good      my  lord, this  courtesy is     not  of    the  right       breed.       If     it     shall please    you to

make      me a    wholesome  answer, I     will do your      mother’s       commandment;  if    not, your      pardon   and my  return     shall       be   the  end of    my  business.

HAMLET.

Sir,  I      cannot.

GUILDENSTERN.

What,     my  lord?

HAMLET.

Make      you a     wholesome    answer.  My  wit’s diseased. But, sir,   such       answer   as    I      can make,      you shall command;     or    rather,       as    you say, my  mother.  Therefore      no   more, but      to    the       matter.   My  mother,  you say,—

ROSENCRANTZ.

Then      thus      she says:     your      behaviour    hath     struck   her  into      amazement and admiration.

HAMLET.

O    wonderful      son, that can  so    stonish   a     mother!  But  is     there       no   sequel    at    the  heels of  this  mother’s admiration?

ROSENCRANTZ.

She desires   to    speak     with you in    her  closet     ere  you go   to       bed.

HAMLET.

We  shall obey,      were       she  ten  times      our  mother.  Have      you       any  further    trade      with us?

ROSENCRANTZ.

My  lord, you once       did  love me.

HAMLET.

And so    I      do   still, by   these      pickers   and stealers.

ROSENCRANTZ.

Good      my  lord, what       is     your cause     of    distemper?    You do       surely     bar  the  door       upon your     own liberty     if     you deny       your griefs      to    your friend.

HAMLET.

Sir,  I      lack advancement.

ROSENCRANTZ.

How can       that      be, when    you       have     the voice    of  the  King      himself for your succession  in    Denmark?

HAMLET.

Ay,  sir,   but  while      the  grass      grows—the   proverb  is       something     musty.

Re-enter the  PLAYERS     with recorders.

O,    the  recorders.      Let  me  see  one.—To withdraw with you, why do       you go   about to recover   the  wind       of    me, as    if     you       would     drive       me  into a     toil?

GUILDENSTERN.

O    my  lord, if     my  duty be   too  bold,      my  love is     too       unmannerly.

HAMLET.

I      do   not  well understand    that. Will you play upon      this  pipe?

GUILDENSTERN.

My  lord, I      cannot.

HAMLET.

I      pray you.

GUILDENSTERN.

Believe   me, I      cannot.

HAMLET.

I      do   beseech you.

GUILDENSTERN.

I      know      no   touch     of    it,    my  lord.

HAMLET.

’Tis  as    easy as    lying:      govern   these      ventages with your finger       and thumb,   give it breath with      your      mouth, and       it   will  discourse     most     eloquent      music.   Look     you, these       are  the  stops.

GUILDENSTERN.

But  these      cannot   I      command      to    any  utterance      of       harmony.       I      have       not  the  skill.

HAMLET.

Why,      look      you       now,     how      unworthy     a    thing    you make    of  me!       You      would   play upon    me; you       would     seem      to    know      my  stops;     you would     pluck       out  the  heart      of my     mystery;       you       would   sound   me  from     my lowest   note     to  the top of  my compass;       and there      is     much     music,    excellent voice,     in    this  little       organ,    yet  cannot you    make    it   speak.   ’Sblood, do you       think     I     am easier   to  be  played  on than     a pipe?       Call me  what       instrument    you will, though   you can  fret  me,       you cannot   play upon      me.

Enter      POLONIUS .

God bless      you, sir.

POLONIUS.

My  lord, the  Queen    would     speak     with you, and presently.

HAMLET.

Do   you see  yonder   cloud      that’s      almost    in    shape     of    a       camel?

POLONIUS.

By   the  mass,     and ’tis   like  a     camel     indeed.

HAMLET.

Methinks it     is     like  a     weasel.

POLONIUS.

It     is     backed   like  a     weasel.

HAMLET.

Or   like  a     whale.

POLONIUS.

Very like  a     whale.

HAMLET.

Then      will  I      come      to    my  mother   by   and by.—They      fool       me  to    the  top  of    my  bent.

—I   will  come      by   and by.

POLONIUS.

I      will  say  so.

[ Exit. ]

HAMLET.

By   and by   is     easily      said. Leave     me, friends.

[ Exeunt  all    but  HAMLET . ]

’Tis  now the  very witching time of    night,

When     churchyards  yawn,     and hell  itself breathes out

Contagion     to    this  world.     Now       could      I      drink      hot       blood,

And do   such bitter      business as    the  day

Would    quake     to    look on.  Soft now,       to    my  mother.

O    heart,     lose not  thy  nature;   let   not  ever

The soul of    Nero       enter      this  firm bosom:

Let  me  be   cruel,      not  unnatural.

I      will  speak     daggers  to    her, but  use  none;

My  tongue   and soul in    this  be   hypocrites.

How in    my  words     somever she  be   shent,

To   give them      seals       never,     my  soul, consent.

[ Exit. ]

SCENE    III.    A     room      in    the  Castle.

Enter      KING,    ROSENCRANTZ    and GUILDENSTERN .

KING.

I      like  him not, nor  stands    it     safe with us

To   let   his   madness range.    Therefore      prepare  you,

I      your commission   will  forthwith dispatch,

And he   to    England  shall along     with you.

The terms     of    our  estate     may not  endure

Hazard   so    near us    as    doth       hourly    grow

Out of    his   lunacies.

GUILDENSTERN.

We  will  ourselves provide.

Most      holy and religious fear it     is

To   keep       those      many      many      bodies    safe

That live  and feed upon      your Majesty.

ROSENCRANTZ.

The single     and peculiar  life   is     bound

With       all    the  strength and armour   of    the  mind,

To   keep       itself from       ’noyance;      but  much     more

That spirit       upon      whose    weal depend  and rest

The lives of    many.     The cease     of    majesty

Dies not  alone;     but  like  a     gulf doth       draw

What’s    near it     with it.    It     is     a     massy     wheel

Fix’d on   the  summit   of    the  highest   mount,

To   whose    huge      spokes    ten  thousand       lesser     things

Are  mortis’d  and adjoin’d; which     when      it     falls,

Each       small      annexment,   petty      consequence,

Attends  the  boist’rous      ruin. Never     alone

Did  the  King sigh, but  with a     general   groan.

KING.

Arm you, I      pray you, to    this  speedy   voyage; For    we   will  fetters       put  upon      this  fear,

Which    now goes       too  free-footed.

ROSENCRANTZ     and GUILDENSTERN.

We  will  haste      us.

[ Exeunt  ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN . ]

Enter      POLONIUS .

POLONIUS.

My  lord, he’s going     to    his   mother’s closet.

Behind   the  arras       I’ll    convey   myself

To   hear the  process.  I’ll    warrant  she’ll      tax   him home,

And as    you said, and wisely     was it     said,

’Tis  meet      that some      more      audience than a     mother,

Since      nature    makes    them      partial,    should    o’erhear

The speech   of    vantage. Fare you well, my  liege,

I’ll    call  upon      you ere  you go   to    bed,

And tell  you what       I      know.

KING.

Thanks,  dear my  lord.

[ Exit       POLONIUS . ]

O,    my  offence   is     rank,       it     smells     to    heaven;

It     hath the  primal    eldest     curse      upon’t,—

A     brother’s murder!  Pray can  I      not,

Though  inclination     be   as    sharp      as    will:

My  stronger guilt defeats   my  strong    intent,

And, like  a     man to    double   business bound,

I      stand      in    pause     where     I      shall first begin,

And both       neglect.  What      if     this  cursed    hand

Were      thicker    than itself with brother’s blood,

Is     there      not  rain enough  in    the  sweet     heavens

To   wash      it     white      as    snow?     Whereto serves     mercy

But  to    confront the  visage    of    offence?

And what’s    in    prayer    but  this  twofold   force,

To   be   forestalled     ere  we   come      to    fall,

Or   pardon’d being     down?    Then      I’ll    look up.

My  fault is     past.       But  O,    what       form       of    prayer

Can serve      my  turn?      Forgive   me  my  foul murder!

That cannot   be;  since      I      am  still  possess’d

Of   those      effects    for   which     I      did  the  murder,—

My  crown,    mine      own ambition,       and my  queen.

May one be   pardon’d and retain     th’offence?

In    the  corrupted      currents  of    this  world

Offence’s       gilded     hand      may shove     by   justice,

And oft   ’tis   seen the  wicked    prize       itself

Buys out  the  law. But  ’tis   not  so    above;

There     is     no   shuffling, there      the  action     lies

In    his   true nature,   and we   ourselves compell’d

Even       to    the  teeth      and forehead of    our  faults,

To   give in    evidence.       What      then?      What      rests?

Try  what       repentance    can. What      can  it     not?

Yet  what       can  it,    when      one cannot   repent?

O    wretched state!      O    bosom    black      as    death!

O    limed      soul, that struggling      to    be   free,

Art   more      engag’d! Help,      angels!   Make      assay:

Bow,       stubborn knees;    and heart      with strings    of    steel,

Be   soft as    sinews    of    the  new-born      babe.

All   may be   well.

[ Retires  and kneels. ]

Enter      HAMLET .

HAMLET.

Now       might     I      do   it     pat, now he   is     praying.

And now I’ll    do’t. And so    he   goes       to    heaven;

And so    am  I      reveng’d. That would     be   scann’d:

A     villain     kills my  father,    and for   that

I,     his   sole son, do   this  same      villain     send

To   heaven.  O,    this  is     hire and salary,    not  revenge.

He   took my  father     grossly,   full  of    bread,

With       all    his   crimes    broad     blown,    as    flush       as    May;

And how his   audit      stands,   who knows    save heaven?

But  in    our  circumstance and course    of    thought,

’Tis  heavy     with him. And am  I      then reveng’d,

To   take him in    the  purging  of    his   soul,

When     he   is     fit    and season’d for   his   passage? No.

Up,  sword,    and know      thou a     more      horrid     hent: When    he       is     drunk     asleep;   or    in    his   rage,

Or   in    th’incestuous pleasure of    his   bed,

At    gaming,  swearing;       or    about     some      act

That has  no   relish      of    salvation in’t,

Then      trip  him, that his   heels      may kick at    heaven,

And that his   soul may be   as    damn’d  and black

As   hell, whereto  it     goes.      My  mother   stays.

This physic    but  prolongs thy  sickly      days.

[ Exit. ]

The KING    rises and advances.

KING.

My  words     fly    up,  my  thoughts remain   below.

Words    without  thoughts never      to    heaven   go.

[ Exit. ]

SCENE    IV.   Another  room      in    the  Castle.

Enter      QUEEN        and POLONIUS .

POLONIUS.

He   will  come      straight.  Look       you lay   home     to    him,

Tell  him his   pranks    have       been      too  broad     to    bear with,

And that your Grace     hath screen’d and stood     between

Much     heat and him. I’ll    silence    me  e’en here.

Pray you be   round     with him.

HAMLET.

[ Within. ]       Mother,  mother,  mother.

QUEEN.

I’ll    warrant  you, Fear me  not.

Withdraw,      I      hear him coming.

[POLONIUS   goes       behind   the  arras. ]

Enter      HAMLET .

HAMLET.

Now,      mother,  what’s    the  matter?

QUEEN.

Hamlet,  thou hast thy  father     much     offended.

HAMLET.

Mother,  you have       my  father     much     offended.

QUEEN.

Come,    come,     you answer   with an   idle  tongue.

HAMLET.

Go,  go,  you question with a     wicked    tongue.

QUEEN.

Why,      how now,       Hamlet?

HAMLET.

What’s    the  matter    now?

QUEEN.

Have      you forgot     me?

HAMLET.

No,  by   the  rood,      not  so.

You are  the  Queen,   your husband’s     brother’s wife,

And, would     it     were       not  so.   You are  my  mother.

QUEEN.

Nay, then I’ll    set   those      to    you that can  speak.

HAMLET.

Come,    come,     and 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.

QUEEN.

What      wilt  thou do?  Thou      wilt  not  murder   me?

Help,      help,       ho!

POLONIUS.

[ Behind. ]      What,     ho!  help,       help,       help!

HAMLET.

How now?      A     rat? [ Draws. ]

Dead      for   a     ducat,     dead!

[ Makes  a     pass through  the  arras. ]

POLONIUS.

[ Behind. ]      O,    I      am  slain!

[ Falls     and dies. ]

QUEEN.

O    me, what       hast thou done?

HAMLET.

Nay, I      know      not. is     it     the  King?

[ Draws   forth       POLONIUS . ]

QUEEN.

O    what       a     rash and bloody    deed      is     this!

HAMLET.

A     bloody    deed.      Almost   as    bad, good      mother,

As   kill   a     king and marry     with his   brother.

QUEEN.

As   kill   a     king?

HAMLET.

Ay,  lady, ’twas      my  word.—

[ To Polonius. ]     Thou      wretched,      rash,       intruding fool, farewell!

I      took thee for   thy  better.    Take       thy  fortune,

Thou      find’st     to    be   too  busy       is     some      danger.—

Leave     wringing of    your hands.    Peace,    sit    you down,

And let   me  wring      your heart,     for   so    I      shall,

If     it     be   made     of    penetrable     stuff;

If     damned custom   have       not  braz’d     it     so,

That it     is     proof      and bulwark  against   sense.

QUEEN.

What      have       I      done,     that thou dar’st      wag thy  tongue

In    noise      so    rude against   me?

HAMLET.

Such       an   act

That blurs       the  grace      and blush      of    modesty,

Calls virtue     hypocrite,      takes      off   the  rose

From      the  fair  forehead of    an   innocent love,

And sets a     blister     there.     Makes    marriage vows

As   false as    dicers’    oaths.     O    such a     deed

As   from       the  body      of    contraction    plucks

The very soul, and sweet     religion   makes

A     rhapsody of    words.    Heaven’s face doth       glow,

Yea this  solidity   and compound    mass,

With       tristful    visage,    as    against   the  doom,

Is     thought-sick at    the  act.

QUEEN.

Ay   me, what       act,

That roars      so    loud,      and thunders in    the  index?

HAMLET.

Look       here upon      this  picture,   and on   this,

The counterfeit    presentment  of    two brothers.

See  what       a     grace      was seated    on   this  brow,

Hyperion’s     curls,      the  front       of    Jove himself,

An   eye  like  Mars,      to    threaten and command,

A     station    like  the  herald    Mercury

New lighted   on   a     heaven-kissing     hill:

A     combination  and a     form       indeed,

Where    every      god did  seem      to    set   his   seal,

To   give the  world      assurance      of    a     man.

This was your husband. Look       you now what       follows.

Here       is     your husband, like  a     mildew’d ear

Blasting  his   wholesome    brother.  Have      you eyes?

Could     you on   this  fair  mountain      leave      to    feed,

And batten    on   this  moor?    Ha!  have       you eyes?

You cannot   call  it     love; for   at    your age

The hey-day in    the  blood     is     tame,     it’s   humble,

And waits      upon      the  judgment:     and what       judgment

Would    step from       this  to    this? Sense     sure you have,

Else could      you not  have       motion;  but  sure that sense

Is     apoplex’d,     for   madness would     not  err

Nor sense     to    ecstacy   was ne’er      so    thrall’d

But  it     reserv’d  some      quantity of    choice

To   serve      in    such a     difference.     What      devil       was’t

That thus hath cozen’d  you at    hoodman-blind?

Eyes without  feeling,   feeling    without  sight,

Ears without  hands     or    eyes,      smelling sans all,

Or   but  a     sickly      part of    one true sense

Could     not  so    mope.    O    shame!   where     is     thy  blush?

Rebellious     hell,

If     thou canst      mutine   in    a     matron’s bones,

To   flaming   youth     let   virtue     be   as    wax,

And melt in    her  own fire. Proclaim no   shame

When     the  compulsive    ardour    gives      the  charge,

Since      frost itself as    actively   doth       burn,

And reason    panders  will.

QUEEN.

O    Hamlet,  speak     no   more.

Thou      turn’st    mine      eyes into my  very soul,

And there      I      see  such black      and grained  spots

As   will  not  leave      their tinct.

HAMLET.

Nay, but  to    live

In    the  rank sweat     of    an   enseamed     bed,

Stew’d    in    corruption,    honeying       and making   love

Over       the  nasty      sty.

QUEEN.

O    speak     to    me  no   more;

These     words     like  daggers  enter      in    mine      ears;

No   more,     sweet     Hamlet.

HAMLET.

A     murderer       and a     villain;

A     slave      that is     not  twentieth       part the  tithe

Of   your precedent      lord. A     vice of    kings,

A     cutpurse of    the  empire   and the  rule,

That from       a     shelf the  precious diadem   stole

And put  it     in    his   pocket!

QUEEN.

No   more.

HAMLET.

A     king of    shreds    and patches!—

Enter      GHOST .

Save me  and hover     o’er me  with your wings,

You heavenly guards!   What      would     your gracious figure?

QUEEN.

Alas, he’s mad.

HAMLET.

Do   you not  come      your tardy      son  to    chide,

That,      laps’d     in    time and passion,  lets  go   by

The important      acting     of    your dread     command?

O    say!

GHOST.

Do   not  forget.    This visitation

Is     but  to    whet       thy  almost    blunted  purpose.

But  look,       amazement   on   thy  mother   sits.

O    step between her  and her  fighting  soul.

Conceit  in    weakest  bodies    strongest       works.

Speak     to    her, Hamlet.

HAMLET.

How is     it     with you, lady?

QUEEN.

Alas, how is’t   with you,

That you do   bend      your eye  on   vacancy,

And with the  incorporal      air   do   hold discourse?

Forth      at    your eyes your spirits     wildly     peep,

And, as    the  sleeping soldiers  in    the  alarm,

Your       bedded  hairs,      like  life   in    excrements,

Start up   and stand      an   end. O    gentle    son,

Upon      the  heat and flame      of    thy  distemper

Sprinkle  cool patience. Whereon do   you look?

HAMLET.

On  him, on   him! Look       you how pale he   glares,

His  form       and cause     conjoin’d,      preaching      to    stones,

Would    make      them      capable.—Do not  look upon      me,

Lest with this  piteous   action     you convert

My  stern      effects.   Then      what       I      have       to    do

Will want       true colour;    tears       perchance     for   blood.

QUEEN.

To   whom     do   you speak     this?

HAMLET.

Do   you see  nothing  there?

QUEEN.

Nothing  at    all;   yet  all    that is     I      see.

HAMLET.

Nor did  you nothing  hear?

QUEEN.

No,  nothing  but  ourselves.

HAMLET.

Why,      look you there!     look how it     steals     away!

My  father,    in    his   habit      as    he   liv’d!

Look       where     he   goes       even       now out  at    the  portal.

[ Exit       GHOST . ]

QUEEN.

This is     the  very coinage  of    your brain.

This bodiless  creation  ecstasy

Is     very cunning  in.

HAMLET.

Ecstasy!

My  pulse      as    yours      doth       temperately   keep       time,

And makes    as    healthful music.    It     is     not  madness

That I      have       utter’d.   Bring      me  to    the  test,

And I      the  matter    will  re-word; which     madness

Would    gambol  from.      Mother,  for   love of    grace,

Lay  not  that flattering unction  to    your soul

That not  your trespass, but  my  madness speaks.

It     will  but  skin and film the  ulcerous place,

Whilst     rank corruption,    mining   all    within,

Infects    unseen.  Confess  yourself  to    heaven,

Repent   what’s    past,       avoid      what       is     to    come;

And do   not  spread    the  compost on   the  weeds,

To   make      them      ranker.    Forgive   me  this  my  virtue;

For  in    the  fatness   of    these      pursy      times

Virtue     itself of    vice must      pardon   beg,

Yea, curb and woo for   leave      to    do   him good.

QUEEN.

O    Hamlet,  thou hast cleft my  heart      in    twain.

HAMLET.

O    throw     away      the  worser    part of    it,

And live  the  purer      with the  other      half.

Good      night.     But  go   not  to    mine      uncle’s   bed.

Assume  a     virtue,     if     you have       it     not.

That monster custom,  who all    sense     doth       eat,

Of   habits     evil, is     angel      yet  in    this,

That to    the  use  of    actions   fair  and good

He   likewise  gives      a     frock       or    livery

That aptly       is     put  on.  Refrain   tonight,

And that shall lend a     kind of    easiness

To   the  next abstinence.    The next more      easy;

For  use  almost    can  change   the  stamp     of    nature,

And either     curb the  devil,      or    throw     him out

With       wondrous      potency. Once      more,     good      night,

And when      you are  desirous to    be   bles’d,

I’ll    blessing  beg of    you. For  this  same      lord

[ Pointing      to    Polonius. ]

I      do   repent;   but  heaven   hath pleas’d   it     so,

To   punish    me  with this, and this  with me,

That I      must      be   their scourge  and minister.

I      will  bestow   him, and will  answer   well

The death     I      gave       him. So   again,     good      night.

I      must      be   cruel,      only to    be   kind:

Thus       bad begins,   and worse     remains  behind.

One word      more,     good      lady.

QUEEN.

What      shall I      do?

HAMLET.

Not this, by   no   means,   that I      bid  you do:

Let  the  bloat      King tempt     you again      to    bed,

Pinch      wanton   on   your cheek,    call  you his   mouse,

And let   him, for   a     pair of    reechy    kisses,

Or   paddling in    your neck with his   damn’d  fingers,

Make      you to    ravel       all    this  matter    out,

That I      essentially     am  not  in    madness,

But  mad in    craft.      ’Twere    good      you let   him know,

For  who that’s      but  a     queen,    fair, sober,     wise,

Would    from       a     paddock, from       a     bat, a     gib,

Such       dear concernings  hide?      Who       would     do   so?

No,  in    despite   of    sense     and secrecy,

Unpeg    the  basket    on   the  house’s  top,

Let  the  birds       fly,   and like  the  famous   ape,

To   try   conclusions,  in    the  basket    creep

And break      your own neck down.

QUEEN.

Be   thou assur’d,  if     words     be   made     of    breath,

And breath    of    life,  I      have       no   life   to    breathe

What      thou hast said to    me.

HAMLET.

I      must      to    England, you know      that?

QUEEN.

Alack,

I      had forgot.    ’Tis  so    concluded     on.

HAMLET.

There’s   letters     seal’d:    and my  two schoolfellows,

Whom    I      will  trust as    I      will  adders    fang’d,—

They       bear the  mandate,       they must      sweep    my  way

And marshal  me  to    knavery. Let  it     work;

For  ’tis   the  sport      to    have       the  enginer

Hoist      with his   own petard,   and ’t     shall go   hard

But  I      will  delve      one yard below     their mines

And blow       them      at    the  moon.    O,    ’tis   most      sweet,

When     in    one line  two crafts      directly   meet.

This man shall set   me  packing.

I’ll    lug  the  guts into the  neighbour     room.

Mother,  good      night.     Indeed,   this  counsellor

Is     now most      still, most      secret,    and most      grave,

Who       was in    life   a     foolish    peating  knave.

Come,    sir,   to    draw       toward   an   end with you.

Good      night,     mother.

[ Exit       HAMLET      dragging out  POLONIUS . ]

ACT IV

SCENE    I.     A     room      in    the  Castle.

Enter      KING,    QUEEN,  ROSENCRANTZ    and GUILDENSTERN .

KING.

There’s   matter    in    these      sighs.     These     profound       heaves

You must      translate. ’tis   fit    we   understand    them.

Where    is     your son?

QUEEN.

Bestow   this  place      on   us    a     little while.

[ To ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN,        who go   out. ]

Ah,  my  good      lord, what       have       I      seen tonight!

KING.

What,     Gertrude?      How does       Hamlet?

QUEEN.

Mad as    the  sea  and wind,      when      both       contend

Which    is     the  mightier. In    his   lawless   fit

Behind   the  arras       hearing  something     stir,

Whips     out  his   rapier,    cries ‘A    rat,  a     rat!’

And in    this  brainish  apprehension kills

The unseen   good      old  man.

KING.

O    heavy     deed!

It     had been      so    with us,   had we   been      there.

His  liberty     is     full  of    threats   to    all;

To   you yourself, to    us,   to    everyone.

Alas, how shall this  bloody    deed      be   answer’d?

It     will  be   laid  to    us,   whose    providence

Should   have       kept short,     restrain’d,      and out  of    haunt

This mad young    man.      But  so    much     was our  love

We  would     not  understand    what       was most      fit,

But  like  the  owner     of    a     foul disease,

To   keep       it     from       divulging,      let   it     feed

Even       on   the  pith of    life.  Where    is     he   gone?

QUEEN.

To   draw       apart      the  body      he   hath kill’d,

O’er whom     his   very madness,       like  some      ore

Among   a     mineral   of    metals    base,

Shows    itself pure.      He   weeps    for   what       is     done.

KING.

O    Gertrude,       come      away!

The sun  no   sooner    shall the  mountains     touch

But  we   will  ship him hence,    and this  vile  deed

We  must      with all    our  majesty  and skill

Both       countenance and excuse.—Ho, Guildenstern!

Re-enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN .

Friends   both,      go   join you with some      further    aid:

Hamlet   in    madness hath Polonius slain,

And from       his   mother’s closet     hath he   dragg’d  him.

Go   seek him out, speak     fair, and bring      the  body

Into the  chapel.   I      pray you haste      in    this.

[ Exeunt  ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN . ]

Come,    Gertrude,       we’ll call  up   our  wisest     friends,

And let   them      know      both       what       we   mean     to    do

And what’s    untimely done,     so    haply      slander,

Whose    whisper  o’er the  world’s   diameter,

As   level as    the  cannon   to    his   blank,

Transports     his   poison’d shot,       may miss our  name,

And hit   the  woundless     air.  O,    come      away!

My  soul is     full  of    discord   and dismay.

[ Exeunt. ]

SCENE    II.     Another  room      in    the  Castle.

Enter      HAMLET .

HAMLET.

Safely     stowed.

ROSENCRANTZ     and GUILDENSTERN.

[ Within. ]       Hamlet!  Lord Hamlet!

HAMLET.

What      noise?    Who       calls on   Hamlet? O,    here they come.

Enter      ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN .

ROSENCRANTZ.

What      have       you done,     my  lord, with the  dead      body?

HAMLET.

Compounded it     with dust,       whereto  ’tis   kin.

ROSENCRANTZ.

Tell  us    where     ’tis,  that we   may take it     thence,

And bear it     to    the  chapel.

HAMLET.

Do   not  believe   it.

ROSENCRANTZ.

Believe   what?

HAMLET.

That I      can  keep       your counsel, and not  mine      own.       Besides,       to    be   demanded     of    a sponge—what   replication     should       be   made     by   the  son  of    a     king?

ROSENCRANTZ.

Take       you me  for   a     sponge,  my  lord?

HAMLET.

Ay,  sir; that      soaks    up the King’s   countenance,      his rewards, his authorities.  But such      officers   do   the  King best       service    in    the  end: he   keeps     them,     like  an   ape, in the       corner    of    his   jaw; first mouthed,      to    be   last  swallowed:       when      he   needs     what you have       gleaned, it     is     but       squeezing     you, and, sponge,  you shall be   dry  again.

ROSENCRANTZ.

I      understand    you not, my  lord.

HAMLET.

I      am  glad of    it.    A     knavish   speech   sleeps     in    a     foolish       ear.

ROSENCRANTZ.

My  lord, you must      tell  us    where     the  body      is     and go   with       us    to    the  King.

HAMLET.

The body      is     with the  King,      but  the  King is     not  with the body.       The King is     a     thing

—

GUILDENSTERN.

A     thing,     my  lord!

HAMLET.

Of   nothing. Bring      me  to    him. Hide       fox,  and all    after.

[ Exeunt. ]

SCENE    III.    Another  room      in    the  Castle.

Enter      KING,   attended.

KING.

I      have       sent to    seek him and to    find the  body.

How dangerous     is     it     that this  man goes       loose!

Yet  must      not  we   put  the  strong    law  on   him:

He’s lov’d       of    the  distracted      multitude,

Who       like  not  in    their judgment,     but  their eyes;

And where     ’tis   so,   th’offender’s  scourge  is     weigh’d,

But  never      the  offence.  To   bear all    smooth  and even,

This sudden   sending  him away      must      seem

Deliberate     pause.    Diseases desperate      grown

By   desperate      appliance      are  reliev’d,

Or   not  at    all.

Enter      ROSENCRANTZ .

How now?      What      hath befall’n?

ROSENCRANTZ.

Where    the  dead      body      is     bestow’d,      my  lord,

We  cannot   get  from       him.

KING.

But  where     is     he?

ROSENCRANTZ.

Without, my  lord, guarded, to    know      your pleasure.

KING.

Bring      him before    us.

ROSENCRANTZ.

Ho,  Guildenstern! Bring      in    my  lord.

Enter      HAMLET      and GUILDENSTERN .

KING.

Now,      Hamlet,  where’s  Polonius?

HAMLET.

At    supper.

KING.

At    supper?  Where?

HAMLET.

Not where     he   eats, but  where     he   is     eaten.     A     certain       convocation  of    politic     worms are     e’en      at  him.      Your       worm    is   your      only      emperor      for diet.      We fat   all  creatures else      to  fat us, and       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.

KING.

Alas, alas!

HAMLET.

A     man      may      fish with      the worm    that      hath     eat of    a    king,     and       eat of  the fish that hath     fed  of    that       worm.

KING.

What      dost thou mean     by   this?

HAMLET.

Nothing  but to  show    you       how      a    king      may      go a     progress      through the guts      of  a beggar.

KING.

Where    is     Polonius?

HAMLET.

In    heaven.  Send      thither    to    see. If     your messenger    find him       not  there,     seek him i’

th’other  place    yourself.       But indeed, if    you       find       him       not within   this       month, you shall      nose       him as    you       go   up   the  stairs      into the  lobby.

KING.

[ To some      Attendants. ]  Go   seek him there.

HAMLET.

He   will  stay till   you come.

[ Exeunt  ATTENDANTS . ]

KING.

Hamlet,  this  deed,      for   thine      especial  safety,—

Which    we   do   tender,   as    we   dearly     grieve

For  that which     thou hast done,—must send       thee hence

With       fiery quickness.     Therefore      prepare  thyself;

The bark is     ready,     and the  wind       at    help,

Th’associates tend,      and everything     is     bent

For  England.

HAMLET.

For  England?

KING.

Ay,  Hamlet.

HAMLET.

Good.

KING.

So   is     it,    if     thou knew’st   our  purposes.

HAMLET.

I      see  a     cherub   that sees them.     But, come;     for   England!       Farewell, dear mother.

KING.

Thy  loving     father,    Hamlet.

HAMLET.

My  mother.  Father    and mother   is     man and wife; man and wife is       one flesh;      and so,   my  mother.  Come,    for   England.

[ Exit. ]

KING.

Follow    him at    foot. Tempt    him with speed     aboard;

Delay      it     not; I’ll    have       him hence     tonight.

Away,     for   everything     is     seal’d     and done

That else leans      on   th’affair.  Pray you make      haste.

[ Exeunt  ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN . ]

And England, if     my  love thou hold’st    at    aught,—

As   my  great      power     thereof   may give thee sense, Since   yet  thy       cicatrice looks      raw  and red

After       the  Danish    sword,    and thy  free awe

Pays homage to    us,—thou      mayst     not  coldly     set

Our sovereign      process,  which     imports  at    full,

By   letters     conjuring       to    that effect,

The present   death     of    Hamlet.  Do   it,    England;

For  like  the  hectic     in    my  blood     he   rages,

And thou must      cure me. Till   I      know      ’tis   done,

Howe’er my  haps,      my  joys were       ne’er      begun.

[ Exit. ]

SCENE    IV.   A     plain       in    Denmark.

Enter      FORTINBRAS      and FORCES       marching.

FORTINBRAS.

Go,  Captain, from       me  greet      the  Danish    king.

Tell  him that by   his   license,   Fortinbras

Craves    the  conveyance   of    a     promis’d march

Over       his   kingdom.       You know      the  rendezvous.

If     that his   Majesty  would     aught     with us,

We  shall express   our  duty in    his   eye;

And let   him know      so.

CAPTAIN.

I      will  do’t, my  lord.

FORTINBRAS.

Go   softly      on.

[ Exeunt  all    but  the  CAPTAIN . ]

Enter      HAMLET,      ROSENCRANTZ,    GUILDENSTERN    &C .

HAMLET.

Good      sir,   whose    powers   are  these?

CAPTAIN.

They       are  of    Norway,  sir.

HAMLET.

How purpos’d,       sir,   I      pray you?

CAPTAIN.

Against   some      part of    Poland.

HAMLET.

Who       commands    them,     sir?

CAPTAIN.

The nephew  to    old  Norway,  Fortinbras.

HAMLET.

Goes      it     against   the  main      of    Poland,   sir,

Or   for   some      frontier?

CAPTAIN.

Truly       to    speak,    and with no   addition,

We  go   to    gain a     little patch     of    ground

That hath in    it     no   profit      but  the  name.

To   pay  five  ducats,   five, I      would     not  farm it;

Nor will  it     yield       to    Norway  or    the  Pole

A     ranker    rate, should    it     be   sold in    fee.

HAMLET.

Why,      then the  Polack    never      will  defend   it.

CAPTAIN.

Yes, it     is     already   garrison’d.

HAMLET.

Two thousand       souls      and twenty    thousand       ducats

Will not  debate   the  question of    this  straw!

This is     th’imposthume     of    much     wealth    and peace,

That inward    breaks,   and shows     no   cause     without

Why the  man dies. I      humbly   thank     you, sir.

CAPTAIN.

God b’    wi’   you, sir.

[ Exit. ]

ROSENCRANTZ.

Will’t      please    you go,  my  lord?

HAMLET.

I’ll    be   with you straight.  Go   a     little before.

[ Exeunt  all    but  HAMLET . ]

How all    occasions      do   inform    against   me,

And spur my  dull revenge. What      is     a     man

If     his   chief       good      and market   of    his   time

Be   but  to    sleep      and feed?      A     beast,     no   more.

Sure he   that made     us    with such large      discourse,

Looking  before    and after,      gave       us    not

That capability      and godlike   reason

To   fust in    us    unus’d.   Now       whether  it     be

Bestial    oblivion, or    some      craven    scruple

Of   thinking  too  precisely on   th’event,—

A     thought  which,    quarter’d,      hath but  one part wisdom

And ever three      parts      coward,—I     do   not  know

Why yet  I      live  to    say  this  thing’s    to    do,

Sith I      have       cause,    and will, and strength, and means

To   do’t. Examples       gross      as    earth      exhort    me,

Witness  this  army      of    such mass      and charge,

Led  by   a     delicate  and tender    prince,

Whose    spirit,      with divine     ambition puff’d,

Makes    mouths  at    the  invisible  event,

Exposing what       is     mortal    and unsure

To   all    that fortune,  death,    and danger   dare,

Even       for   an   eggshell. Rightly    to    be   great

Is     not  to    stir  without  great      argument,

But  greatly    to    find quarrel   in    a     straw

When     honour’s at    the  stake.     How stand      I      then,

That have       a     father     kill’d,      a     mother   stain’d,

Excitements   of    my  reason    and my  blood,

And let   all    sleep,     while      to    my  shame    I      see

The imminent      death     of    twenty    thousand       men

That,      for   a     fantasy   and trick of    fame,

Go   to    their graves    like  beds,      fight for   a     plot

Whereon the  numbers cannot   try   the  cause,

Which    is     not  tomb      enough  and continent

To   hide the  slain?      O,    from       this  time forth,

My  thoughts be   bloody    or    be   nothing  worth.

[ Exit. ]

SCENE    V.    Elsinore. A     room      in    the  Castle.

Enter      QUEEN, HORATIO      and a     GENTLEMAN .

QUEEN.

I      will  not  speak     with her.

GENTLEMAN.

She is     importunate, indeed    distract.

Her  mood     will  needs     be   pitied.

QUEEN.

What      would     she  have?

GENTLEMAN.

She speaks    much     of    her  father;    says she  hears

There’s   tricks      i’     th’   world,     and hems,     and beats      her heart, Spurns    enviously at    straws,    speaks    things     in    doubt,

That carry       but  half sense.     Her  speech   is     nothing,

Yet  the  unshaped      use  of    it     doth       move

The hearers   to    collection;     they aim at    it,

And botch     the  words     up   fit    to    their own thoughts,

Which,    as    her  winks,     and nods,      and gestures yield       them,

Indeed    would     make      one think      there      might     be   thought,

Though  nothing  sure,       yet  much     unhappily.

’Twere    good      she  were       spoken   with,       for   she  may strew

Dangerous    conjectures   in    ill-breeding   minds.

QUEEN.

Let  her  come      in.

[ Exit       GENTLEMAN . ]

To   my  sick soul, as    sin’s true nature    is,

Each       toy  seems    prologue to    some      great      amiss.

So   full  of    artless    jealousy  is     guilt,

It     spills       itself in    fearing   to    be   spilt.

Enter      OPHELIA .

OPHELIA.

Where    is     the  beauteous     Majesty  of    Denmark?

QUEEN.

How now,       Ophelia?

OPHELIA.

[ Sings. ]

How should    I      your true love know

From      another  one?

By   his   cockle    bat  and staff

And his   sandal    shoon.

QUEEN.

Alas, sweet     lady, what       imports  this  song?

OPHELIA.

Say  you?       Nay, pray you mark.

[ Sings. ]

He   is     dead      and gone,     lady,

He   is     dead      and gone,

At    his   head      a     grass      green     turf,

At    his   heels      a     stone.

QUEEN.

Nay, but  Ophelia—

OPHELIA.

Pray you mark.

[ Sings. ]

White     his   shroud   as    the  mountain      snow.

Enter      KING .

QUEEN.

Alas, look here,      my  lord!

OPHELIA.

[ Sings. ]

Larded    all    with sweet     flowers;

Which    bewept   to    the  grave      did  go

With       true-love       showers.

KING.

How do   you, pretty     lady?

OPHELIA.

Well,       God      dild       you!      They     say the owl was       a    baker’s   daughter.     Lord,     we know

what       we   are, but  know      not  what       we   may be.  God be   at       your table!

KING.

Conceit  upon      her  father.

OPHELIA.

Pray you, let’s have       no   words     of    this; but  when      they ask  you       what       it     means,   say you   this:

[ Sings. ]

Tomorrow     is     Saint      Valentine’s    day,

All   in    the  morning betime,

And I      a     maid      at    your window,

To   be   your Valentine.

Then      up   he   rose and donn’d   his   clothes,

And dupp’d   the  chamber door,

Let  in    the  maid,      that out  a     maid

Never     departed more.

KING.

Pretty     Ophelia!

OPHELIA.

Indeed    la,    without  an   oath,      I’ll    make      an   end on’t.

[ Sings. ]

By   Gis  and by   Saint      Charity,

Alack,     and fie   for   shame!

Young    men will  do’t if     they come      to’t;

By   Cock,      they are  to    blame.

Quoth    she, before    you tumbled me,

You promis’d me  to    wed.

So   would     I      ha’  done,     by   yonder   sun,

An   thou hadst      not  come      to    my  bed.

KING.

How long hath she  been      thus?

OPHELIA.

I      hope     all  will be  well.      We must     be  patient. But I     cannot   choose but weep,   to think they would     lay   him i’     th’       cold ground.  My  brother   shall know      of    it.    And so I  thank       you for   your good      counsel. Come,    my  coach!    Good     night,       ladies;    good night,   sweet     ladies;    good      night,     good       night.

[ Exit. ]

KING.

Follow    her  close;     give her  good      watch,    I      pray you.

[ Exit       HORATIO . ]

O,    this  is     the  poison    of    deep      grief;      it     springs

All   from       her  father’s   death.    O    Gertrude,       Gertrude,

When     sorrows  come,     they come      not  single     spies,

But  in    battalions.     First, her  father     slain;

Next,      your son  gone;     and he   most      violent    author

Of   his   own just  remove;  the  people    muddied,

Thick      and and unwholesome       in    their thoughts and whispers

For  good      Polonius’ death;    and we   have       done      but  greenly

In    hugger-mugger   to    inter him. Poor       Ophelia

Divided   from       herself    and her  fair  judgment,

Without  the  which     we   are  pictures  or    mere      beasts.

Last, and as    much     containing     as    all    these,

Her  brother   is     in    secret     come      from       France,

Feeds     on   his   wonder,  keeps     himself   in    clouds,

And wants     not  buzzers  to    infect      his   ear

With       pestilent speeches of    his   father’s   death,

Wherein necessity,      of    matter    beggar’d,

Will nothing  stick our  person    to    arraign

In    ear  and ear. O    my  dear Gertrude,       this,

Like to    a     murdering     piece,     in    many      places

Gives      me  superfluous   death.

[ A   noise      within. ]

QUEEN.

Alack,     what       noise      is     this?

KING.

Where    are  my  Switzers? Let  them      guard     the  door.

Enter      a     GENTLEMAN .

What      is     the  matter?

GENTLEMAN.

Save yourself, my  lord.

The ocean,    overpeering   of    his   list,

Eats not  the  flats with more      impetuous     haste Than    young       Laertes,  in    a     riotous   head,

O’erbears      your offices.   The rabble    call  him lord,

And, as    the  world      were       now but  to    begin,

Antiquity forgot,    custom   not  known,

The ratifiers   and props     of    every      word,

They       cry   ‘Choose  we!  Laertes   shall be   king!’

Caps,      hands,    and tongues  applaud  it     to    the  clouds,

‘Laertes  shall be   king,       Laertes   king.’

QUEEN.

How cheerfully      on   the  false trail they cry.

O,    this  is     counter, you false Danish    dogs.

[ A   noise      within. ]

KING.

The doors     are  broke.

Enter      LAERTES,     armed; DANES     following.

LAERTES.

Where    is     this  king?—Sirs,   stand      you all    without.

Danes.

No,  let’s come      in.

LAERTES.

I      pray you, give me  leave.

DANES.

We  will, we   will.

[ They     retire      without  the  door. ]

LAERTES.

I      thank     you. Keep      the  door.      O    thou vile  king,

Give me  my  father.

QUEEN.

Calmly,   good      Laertes.

LAERTES.

That drop       of    blood     that’s      calm       proclaims      me  bastard;

Cries       cuckold  to    my  father,    brands    the  harlot

Even       here between the  chaste    unsmirched   brow Of  my  true       mother.

KING.

What      is     the  cause,    Laertes,

That thy  rebellion looks      so    giant-like?—

Let  him go,  Gertrude.       Do   not  fear our  person.

There’s   such divinity   doth       hedge    a     king,

That treason   can  but  peep      to    what       it     would,

Acts little of    his   will.—Tell      me, Laertes,

Why thou art   thus incens’d.—Let       him go,  Gertrude:—

Speak,    man.

LAERTES.

Where    is     my  father?

KING.

Dead.

QUEEN.

But  not  by   him.

KING.

Let  him demand his   fill.

LAERTES.

How came      he   dead?     I’ll    not  be   juggled   with.

To   hell, allegiance!     Vows,     to    the  blackest  devil!

Conscience    and grace,     to    the  profoundest  pit!

I      dare damnation.    To   this  point      I      stand,

That both       the  worlds,   I      give to    negligence,

Let  come      what       comes;   only I’ll    be   reveng’d

Most      throughly      for   my  father.

KING.

Who       shall stay you?

LAERTES.

My  will, not  all    the  world.

And for   my  means,   I’ll    husband them      so    well,

They       shall go   far   with little.

KING.

Good      Laertes,

If     you desire     to    know      the  certainty

Of   your dear father’s   death,    is’t   writ in    your revenge

That,      sweepstake,   you will  draw       both       friend     and foe,

Winner   and loser?

LAERTES.

None      but  his   enemies.

KING.

Will you know      them      then?

LAERTES.

To   his   good      friends    thus wide       I’ll    ope my  arms;

And, like  the  kind life-rendering pelican,

Repast    them      with my  blood.

KING.

Why,      now you speak

Like a     good      child       and a     true gentleman.

That I      am  guiltless  of    your father’s   death,

And am  most      sensibly  in    grief for   it,

It     shall as    level to    your judgment      ’pear

As   day  does       to    your eye.

DANES.

[ Within. ]       Let  her  come      in.

LAERTES.

How now!       What      noise      is     that?

Re-enter OPHELIA,    fantastically   dressed  with straws    and flowers.

O    heat,      dry  up   my  brains.    Tears      seven     times      salt,

Burn       out  the  sense     and virtue     of    mine      eye.

By   heaven,  thy  madness shall be   paid by   weight,

Till   our  scale      turn the  beam.     O    rose of    May!

Dear       maid,      kind sister,     sweet     Ophelia!

O    heavens, is’t   possible  a     young    maid’s    wits

Should   be   as    mortal    as    an   old  man’s     life?

Nature    is     fine in    love, and where     ’tis   fine,

It     sends     some      precious instance of    itself

After       the  thing      it     loves.

OPHELIA.

[ Sings. ]

They       bore       him barefac’d on   the  bier,

Hey no   nonny,    nonny,    hey  nonny

And on   his   grave      rain’d     many      a     tear.—

Fare you well, my  dove!

LAERTES.

Hadst     thou thy  wits, and didst       persuade revenge,

It     could      not  move      thus.

OPHELIA.

You must     sing      ‘Down   a-down,      and       you       call him       a-down-a.’  O,  how      the wheel becomes   it!    It     is     the       false steward  that stole       his   master’s daughter.

LAERTES.

This nothing’s more      than matter.

OPHELIA.

There’s   rosemary,    that’s    for remembrance;    pray      love,     remember.    And      there    is pansies,    that’s      for   thoughts.

LAERTES.

A     document     in    madness,       thoughts and remembrance fitted.

OPHELIA.

There’s   fennel     for   you, and columbines.   There’s   rue  for   you; and       here’s     some      for me.   We  may call  it     herb of    grace      o’       Sundays. O    you must      wear       your rue  with a difference.       There’s   a     daisy.     I      would     give you some      violets,   but       they wither’d  all when my  father     died.       They       say  he       made     a     good      end.

[ Sings. ]

For  bonny    sweet     Robin     is     all    my  joy.

LAERTES.

Thought and affliction, passion,  hell  itself

She turns      to    favour    and to    prettiness.

OPHELIA.

[ Sings. ]

And will  he   not  come      again?

And will  he   not  come      again?

No,  no,  he   is     dead,

Go   to    thy  death-bed,

He   never      will  come      again.

                     His  beard     was as    white      as    snow,

All   flaxen     was his   poll.

He   is     gone,     he   is     gone,

And we   cast away      moan.

God ha’  mercy     on   his   soul.

And of    all    Christian souls,     I      pray God.       God b’    wi’   ye.

[ Exit. ]

LAERTES.

Do   you see  this, O    God?

KING.

Laertes,  I      must      commune      with your grief,

Or   you deny       me  right.      Go   but  apart,

Make      choice    of    whom     your wisest     friends    you will,

And they shall hear and judge     ’twixt      you and me.

If     by   direct     or    by   collateral hand

They       find us    touch’d,  we   will  our  kingdom give,

Our crown,    our  life,  and all    that we   call  ours

To   you in    satisfaction;   but  if     not,

Be   you content  to    lend your patience to    us,

And we   shall jointly     labour    with your soul

To   give it     due content.

LAERTES.

Let  this  be   so;

His  means    of    death,    his   obscure  burial,—

No   trophy,   sword,    nor  hatchment    o’er his   bones,

No   noble     rite, nor  formal    ostentation,—

Cry  to    be   heard,    as    ’twere     from       heaven   to    earth,

That I      must      call’t in    question.

KING.

So   you shall.

And where     th’offence      is     let   the  great      axe  fall.

I      pray you go   with me.

[ Exeunt. ]

SCENE    VI.   Another  room      in    the  Castle.

Enter      HORATIO    and a     SERVANT .

HORATIO.

What      are  they that would     speak     with me?

SERVANT.

Sailors,   sir.   They       say  they have       letters     for   you.

HORATIO.

Let  them      come      in.

[ Exit       SERVANT . ]

I      do   not  know      from       what       part of    the  world

I      should    be   greeted, if     not  from       Lord Hamlet.

Enter      SAILORS .

FIRST      SAILOR.

God bless      you, sir.

HORATIO.

Let  him bless      thee too.

FIRST      SAILOR.

He   shall,     sir, and’t     please   him.      There’s a    letter    for you, sir. It   comes  from th’ambassador   that was bound    for       England; if     your name     be   Horatio,  as    I      am  let to       know      it     is.

HORATIO.

[ Reads. ] ‘Horatio, when      thou shalt       have       overlooked    this, give       these      fellows    some means  to    the  King.      They       have       letters     for   him. Ere  we   were       two days old  at    sea, a pirate       of    very warlike   appointment gave       us    chase.    Finding       ourselves too  slow of sail,    we put on a    compelled   valour,  and in   the grapple I     boarded       them.    On the instant   they got clear     of  our ship,     so  I     alone    became their     prisoner. They     have dealt    with me  like  thieves   of    mercy.    But       they knew      what       they did; I      am  to    do   a good   turn for       them.     Let  the  King have       the  letters     I      have       sent,       and repair     thou to me     with as    much     haste      as    thou       wouldst  fly    death.    I      have       words     to    speak     in    thine ear  will  make      thee dumb;    yet  are  they much     too  light for   the       bore       of    the  matter.

These     good    fellows  will bring    thee      where   I     am.       Rosencrantz  and       Guildenstern hold      their course    for   England:       of    them      I      have       much     to    tell  thee.      Farewell.

He   that thou knowest thine,

HAMLET.’

Come,    I      will  give you way for   these      your letters,

And do’t the  speedier, that you may direct     me To     him from       whom     you brought  them.

[ Exeunt. ]

SCENE    VII.  Another  room      in    the  Castle.

Enter      KING    and LAERTES .

KING.

Now       must      your conscience    my  acquittance   seal,

And you must      put  me  in    your heart      for   friend,

Sith you have       heard,    and with a     knowing ear,

That he   which     hath your noble     father     slain

Pursu’d   my  life.

LAERTES.

It     well appears. But  tell  me

Why you proceeded     not  against   these      feats,

So   crimeful  and so    capital    in    nature,

As   by   your safety,    wisdom, all    things     else,

You mainly    were       stirr’d     up.

KING.

O,    for   two special    reasons,

Which    may to    you, perhaps, seem      much     unsinew’d,

But  yet  to    me  they are  strong.   The Queen    his   mother

Lives       almost    by   his   looks;     and for   myself,—

My  virtue     or    my  plague,   be   it     either     which,—

She’s      so    conjunctive    to    my  life   and soul,

That,      as    the  star moves    not  but  in    his   sphere,

I      could      not  but  by   her. The other      motive,

Why to    a     public     count     I      might     not  go,

Is     the  great      love the  general   gender   bear him,

Who,      dipping  all    his   faults      in    their affection,

Would    like  the  spring     that turneth   wood      to    stone,

Convert  his   gyves     to    graces;   so    that my  arrows,

Too slightly   timber’d for   so    loud a     wind,

Would    have       reverted to    my  bow again,

And not  where     I      had aim’d      them.

LAERTES.

And so    have       I      a     noble     father     lost,

A     sister      driven     into desperate      terms,

Whose    worth,    if     praises   may go   back       again,

Stood     challenger     on   mount    of    all    the  age

For  her  perfections.   But  my  revenge  will  come.

KING.

Break      not  your sleeps     for   that. You must      not  think

That we   are  made     of    stuff so    flat  and dull

That we   can  let   our  beard     be   shook     with danger,

And think      it     pastime. You shortly    shall hear more.

I      lov’d       your father,    and we   love ourself,

And that, I      hope,     will  teach      you to    imagine—

Enter      a     MESSENGER .

How now?      What      news?

MESSENGER.

Letters,   my  lord, from       Hamlet.

This to    your Majesty; this  to    the  Queen.

KING.

From      Hamlet!  Who       brought  them?

MESSENGER.

Sailors,   my  lord, they say; I      saw them      not.

They       were       given      me  by   Claudio.  He   receiv’d  them

Of   him that brought  them.

KING.

Laertes,  you shall hear them.

Leave     us.

[ Exit       MESSENGER . ]

[ Reads. ] ‘High    and       mighty, you       shall     know    I     am set   naked   on your      kingdom.

Tomorrow     shall     I     beg       leave    to  see your      kingly   eyes.      When   I     shall,     first       asking your  pardon thereunto,     recount the occasions    of  my sudden and       more      strange return.

HAMLET.’

What      should    this  mean?    Are  all    the  rest come      back?

Or   is     it     some      abuse,    and no   such thing?

LAERTES.

Know      you the  hand?

KING.

’Tis  Hamlet’s character.      ’Naked!’

And in    a     postscript      here he   says ‘alone.’

Can you advise    me?

LAERTES.

I      am  lost  in    it,    my  lord. But  let   him come,

It     warms    the  very sickness  in    my  heart

That I      shall live  and tell  him to    his   teeth,

‘Thus      diest       thou.’

KING.

If     it     be   so,   Laertes,—

As   how should    it     be   so?  How otherwise?—

Will you be   rul’d by   me?

LAERTES.

Ay,  my  lord;

So   you will  not  o’errule  me  to    a     peace.

KING.

To   thine      own peace.    If     he   be   now return’d,

As   checking at    his   voyage,  and that he   means

No   more      to    undertake      it,    I      will  work       him

To   exploit,   now ripe in    my  device,

Under     the  which     he   shall not  choose   but  fall;

And for   his   death     no   wind       shall breathe,

But  even       his   mother   shall uncharge       the  practice

And call  it     accident.

LAERTES.

My  lord, I      will  be   rul’d;

The rather     if     you could      devise    it     so

That I      might     be   the  organ.

KING.

It     falls right.

You have       been      talk’d      of    since      your travel      much,

And that in    Hamlet’s hearing,  for   a     quality

Wherein they say  you shine.     Your       sum of    parts

Did  not  together pluck      such envy       from       him

As   did  that one, and that, in    my  regard,

Of   the  unworthiest   siege.

LAERTES.

What      part is     that, my  lord?

KING.

A     very riband    in    the  cap  of    youth,

Yet  needful   too, for   youth     no   less becomes

The light and careless  livery      that it     wears

Than      settled    age his   sables     and his   weeds,

Importing      health    and graveness.     Two months  since

Here       was a     gentleman     of    Normandy,—

I’ve  seen myself,   and serv’d     against,  the  French,

And they can  well on   horseback,     but  this  gallant

Had witchcraft      in’t. He   grew       unto his   seat,

And to    such wondrous      doing     brought  his   horse,

As   had he   been      incorps’d and demi-natur’d

With       the  brave      beast.     So   far   he   topp’d    my  thought

That I      in    forgery   of    shapes   and tricks,

Come     short      of    what       he   did.

LAERTES.

A     Norman  was’t?

KING.

A     Norman.

LAERTES.

Upon      my  life,  Lamond.

KING.

The very same.

LAERTES.

I      know      him well. He   is     the  brooch   indeed

And gem of    all    the  nation.

KING.

He   made     confession     of    you,

And gave       you such a     masterly report

For  art   and exercise  in    your defence,

And for   your rapier     most      especially,

That he   cried       out  ’twould   be   a     sight       indeed

If     one could      match    you. The scrimers of    their nation

He   swore     had neither   motion,  guard,    nor  eye,

If     you oppos’d  them.     Sir,  this  report     of    his

Did  Hamlet   so    envenom       with his   envy

That he   could      nothing  do   but  wish and beg

Your       sudden   coming   o’er to    play with him.

Now,      out  of    this,—

LAERTES.

What      out  of    this, my  lord?

KING.

Laertes,  was your father     dear to    you?

Or   are  you like  the  painting of    a     sorrow,

A     face without  a     heart?

LAERTES.

Why ask  you this?

KING.

Not that I      think      you did  not  love your father,

But  that I      know      love is     begun    by   time,

And that I      see, in    passages of    proof,

Time       qualifies the  spark      and fire  of    it.

There     lives within     the  very flame      of    love

A     kind of    wick or    snuff       that will  abate     it;

And nothing  is     at    a     like  goodness      still,

For  goodness,     growing  to    a     pleurisy,

Dies in    his   own too  much.     That we   would     do,

We  should    do   when      we   would;    for   this  ‘would’   changes,

And hath abatements   and delays    as    many

As   there      are  tongues, are  hands,    are  accidents;

And then this  ‘should’  is     like  a     spendthrift    sigh

That hurts      by   easing.   But  to    the  quick      o’    th’ulcer:

Hamlet   comes    back:      what       would     you undertake

To   show      yourself  your father’s   son  in    deed,

More      than in    words?

LAERTES.

To   cut  his   throat     i’     th’   church.

KING.

No   place,     indeed,   should    murder   sanctuarize;

Revenge should    have       no   bounds.  But  good      Laertes,

Will you do   this, keep       close      within     your chamber.

Hamlet   return’d  shall know      you are  come      home:

We’ll       put  on   those      shall praise     your excellence,

And set   a     double   varnish   on   the  fame

The Frenchman    gave       you, bring      you in    fine together

And wager     on   your heads.    He,  being     remiss,

Most      generous,      and free from       all    contriving,

Will not  peruse    the  foils; so    that with ease,

Or   with a     little shuffling, you may choose

A     sword     unbated, and in    a     pass of    practice,

Requite  him for   your father.

LAERTES.

I      will  do’t.

And for   that purpose  I’ll    anoint    my  sword.

I      bought   an   unction  of    a     mountebank

So   mortal    that, but  dip  a     knife       in    it,

Where    it     draws     blood     no   cataplasm     so    rare,

Collected       from       all    simples   that have       virtue

Under     the  moon,    can  save the  thing      from       death

This is     but  scratch’d withal.    I’ll    touch     my  point

With       this  contagion,     that if     I      gall  him slightly,

It     may be   death.

KING.

Let’s further    think      of    this,

Weigh    what       convenience  both       of    time and means

May fit    us    to    our  shape.    If     this  should    fail,

And that our  drift look through  our  bad performance.

’Twere    better     not  assay’d.  Therefore      this  project

Should   have       a     back       or    second,  that might     hold

If     this  did  blast       in    proof.     Soft, let   me  see.

We’ll       make      a     solemn   wager     on   your cunnings,—

I      ha’t! When     in    your motion   you are  hot  and dry,

As   make      your bouts     more      violent    to    that end,

And that he   calls for   drink,      I’ll    have       prepar’d him A     chalice       for   the  nonce;    whereon but  sipping,

If     he   by   chance   escape   your venom’d stuck,

Our purpose  may hold there.

Enter      QUEEN .

How now,       sweet     Queen?

QUEEN.

One woe doth       tread      upon      another’s heel,

So   fast  they follow.    Your       sister’s    drown’d, Laertes.

LAERTES.

Drown’d! O,    where?

QUEEN.

There     is     a     willow     grows     aslant     a     brook,

That shows     his   hoary     leaves     in    the  glassy     stream.

There     with fantastic garlands did  she  make

Of   crow-flowers, nettles,   daisies,   and long purples,

That liberal     shepherds     give a     grosser   name,

But  our  cold maids     do   dead      men’s     fingers    call  them.

There     on   the  pendant boughs   her  coronet  weeds

Clamb’ring    to    hang,     an   envious  sliver      broke,

When     down      her  weedy    trophies  and herself

Fell  in    the  weeping brook.    Her  clothes   spread    wide,

And mermaid-like, awhile    they bore       her  up,

Which    time she  chaunted       snatches of    old  tunes,

As   one incapable      of    her  own distress,

Or   like  a     creature native     and indued

Unto       that element. But  long it     could      not  be

Till   that her  garments,      heavy     with their drink,

Pull’d      the  poor       wretch    from       her  melodious     lay

To   muddy   death.

LAERTES.

Alas, then she  is     drown’d?

QUEEN.

Drown’d, drown’d.

LAERTES.

Too much     of    water      hast thou,      poor       Ophelia, And therefore I       forbid     my  tears.      But  yet

It     is     our  trick;       nature    her  custom   holds,

Let  shame    say  what       it     will. When     these      are  gone,

The woman   will  be   out. Adieu,    my  lord,

I      have       a     speech   of    fire, that fain would     blaze,

But  that this  folly douts     it.

[ Exit. ]

KING.

Let’s follow,    Gertrude;

How much     I      had to    do   to    calm       his   rage!

Now       fear I      this  will  give it     start again;

Therefore      let’s follow.

[ Exeunt. ]

ACT V

SCENE    I.     A     churchyard.

Enter      two CLOWNS     with spades,   &c.

FIRST      CLOWN.

Is     she to  be  buried   in   Christian      burial,   when    she wilfully    seeks    her own salvation?

SECOND CLOWN.

I      tell  thee she  is,    and therefore make      her  grave      straight.  The       crowner  hath sat   on her,   and finds       it     Christian burial.

FIRST      CLOWN.

How can  that be,  unless    she  drowned herself    in    her  own defence?

SECOND CLOWN.

Why,      ’tis   found     so.

FIRST      CLOWN.

It     must     be  se  offendendo, it   cannot  be  else.      For here lies the point:    if    I     drown myself      wittingly, it     argues       an   act:  and an   act  hath three      branches.      It     is     to    act,       to do,     and to    perform: argal,      she  drowned herself    wittingly.

SECOND CLOWN.

Nay, but  hear you, goodman      delver,—

FIRST      CLOWN.

Give me  leave.     Here       lies  the  water;     good.     Here       stands       the  man;      good.     If     the  man go  to  this       water    and       drown   himself, it   is,  will he  nill he, he  goes,—mark you that. But  if     the  water      come      to    him and drown    him, he       drowns   not  himself.  Argal, he that is     not  guilty      of    his   own       death     shortens not  his   own life.

SECOND CLOWN.

But  is     this  law?

FIRST      CLOWN.

Ay,  marry,    is’t,  crowner’s      quest      law.

SECOND CLOWN.

Will you ha’  the  truth       on’t?       If     this  had not  been      a       gentlewoman,      she  should    have been     buried    out  o’       Christian burial.

FIRST      CLOWN.

Why,      there    thou     say’st.   And      the more    pity       that       great    folk       should  have countenance     in   this       world      to  drown   or  hang     themselves  more    than     their even Christian.    Come,   my spade.  There    is   no ancient gentlemen     but gardeners, ditchers,    and grave-makers:      they hold       up   Adam’s   profession.

SECOND CLOWN.

Was he   a     gentleman?

FIRST      CLOWN.

He   was the  first that ever bore       arms.

SECOND CLOWN.

Why,      he   had none.

FIRST      CLOWN.

What,     art a    heathen?     How     dost      thou     understand  the  Scripture?    The       Scripture says     Adam     digg’d.    Could       he   dig  without  arms?     I’ll    put  another  question to    thee.

If     thou answerest      me  not  to    the  purpose, confess   thyself—

SECOND CLOWN.

Go   to.

FIRST      CLOWN.

What      is   he  that      builds   stronger       than     either    the mason,   the shipwright,   or  the carpenter?

SECOND CLOWN.

The gallows-maker;     for   that frame     outlives  a     thousand       tenants.

FIRST      CLOWN.

I      like  thy  wit   well in    good      faith,      the  gallows   does       well.       But  how does       it     well?       It does    well      to  those    that       do ill.  Now,     thou     dost      ill   to  say the gallows is   built stronger than     the church; argal,    the gallows may      do well to  thee.     To’t       again, come.

SECOND CLOWN.

Who       builds     stronger than a     mason,   a     shipwright,    or    a       carpenter?

FIRST      CLOWN.

Ay,  tell  me  that, and unyoke.

SECOND CLOWN.

Marry,    now I      can  tell.

FIRST      CLOWN.

To’t.

SECOND CLOWN.

Mass,     I      cannot   tell.

Enter      HAMLET      and HORATIO ,   at    a     distance.

FIRST      CLOWN.

Cudgel   thy  brains     no   more      about     it,    for   your dull ass  will       not  mend     his   pace       with beating; and       when    you       are  asked    this       question      next,     say ‘a   grave-maker’.     The houses    he   makes    last  till   doomsday.    Go,  get  thee to       Yaughan;       fetch      me  a     stoup     of liquor.

[ Exit       SECOND      CLOWN . ]

[ Digs     and sings. ]

In    youth     when      I      did  love, did  love,

Methought    it     was very sweet;

To   contract, O,    the  time for,  a,    my  behove,

O    methought    there      was nothing  meet.

HAMLET.

Has this  fellow     no   feeling    of    his   business, that he   sings      at       grave-making?

HORATIO.

Custom  hath made     it     in    him a     property of    easiness.

HAMLET.

’Tis  e’en so;   the  hand      of    little employment  hath the  daintier       sense.

FIRST      CLOWN.

[ Sings. ]

But  age with his   stealing  steps

Hath       claw’d    me  in    his   clutch,

And hath shipp’d   me  into the  land,

As   if     I      had never      been      such.

[ Throws up   a     skull. ]

HAMLET.

That skull had a     tongue   in    it,    and could      sing once.      How the       knave     jowls      it     to    th’

ground,  as    if     ’twere     Cain’s     jawbone, that did  the  first murder!       This might     be   the pate of  a    politician     which   this       ass  now      o’er-offices, one       that      would   circumvent God,       might     it     not?

HORATIO.

It     might,    my  lord.

HAMLET.

Or   of  a    courtier,       which   could    say ‘Good   morrow,       sweet     lord!     How     dost      thou, good   lord?’      This might       be   my  lord such-a-one,  that praised   my  lord such-a-one’s horse      when      he   meant    to    beg it,    might     it     not?

HORATIO.

Ay,  my  lord.

HAMLET.

Why,      e’en      so: and       now      my Lady     Worm’s;       chapless, and       knocked       about   the mazard  with a     sexton’s       spade.    Here’s    fine revolution,     an   we   had the  trick to    see’t.

Did  these      bones     cost no   more      the  breeding but  to    play at       loggets   with ’em?       Mine ache     to    think      on’t.

FIRST      CLOWN.

[ Sings. ]

A     pickaxe   and a     spade,    a     spade,

For  and a     shrouding-sheet;

O,    a     pit   of    clay for   to    be   made

For  such a     guest      is     meet.

[ Throws up   another  skull. ]

HAMLET.

There’s   another.       Why      may      not that      be  the skull      of    a    lawyer? Where  be  his quiddits  now,     his quillets, his cases,     his tenures, and       his tricks?   Why      does     he suffer       this       rude     knave   now      to  knock   him       about   the  sconce  with      a    dirty      shovel, and  will not tell him       of    his action   of  battery? Hum.    This      fellow   might   be  in’s time a    great    buyer    of  land,     with      his statutes,      his   recognizances,    his fines,    his double    vouchers,      his       recoveries.     Is     this  the  fine of    his   fines,      and the  recovery       of his      recoveries,     to    have       his   fine pate full  of    fine dirt?       Will his   vouchers vouch     him no   more      of    his   purchases,       and double   ones       too, than the  length    and breadth  of    a pair of  indentures?  The       very      conveyances of  his lands    will  scarcely lie  in   this box;       and must      the  inheritor himself       have       no   more,     ha?

HORATIO.

Not a     jot   more,     my  lord.

HAMLET.

Is     not  parchment    made     of    sheep-skins?

HORATIO.

Ay,  my  lord, and of    calf-skins      too.

HAMLET.

They       are  sheep     and calves     which     seek out  assurance      in       that. I      will  speak     to    this fellow.—Whose     grave’s   this, sir?

FIRST      CLOWN.

Mine,      sir.

[ Sings. ]

O,    a     pit   of    clay for   to    be   made

For  such a     guest      is     meet.

HAMLET.

I      think      it     be   thine      indeed,   for   thou liest in’t.

FIRST      CLOWN.

You lie    out  on’t, sir,   and therefore ’tis   not  yours.

For  my  part, I      do   not  lie    in’t, yet  it     is     mine.

HAMLET.

Thou      dost      lie  in’t,       to  be  in’t and       say it   is   thine.     ’Tis for the dead,    not for the quick;     therefore thou liest.

FIRST      CLOWN.

’Tis  a     quick      lie,   sir;   ’t     will  away      again      from       me  to       you.

HAMLET.

What      man dost thou dig  it     for?

FIRST      CLOWN.

For  no   man,      sir.

HAMLET.

What      woman   then?

FIRST      CLOWN.

For  none      neither.

HAMLET.

Who       is     to    be   buried    in’t?

FIRST      CLOWN.

One that was a     woman,  sir;   but, rest her  soul, she’s      dead.

HAMLET.

How absolute      the knave   is!  We must     speak    by  the card,       or  equivocation       will undo      us.   By   the  Lord,       Horatio,  these      three      years      I      have       taken      note of       it,    the  age is grown so    picked    that the  toe  of    the  peasant       comes    so    near the  heel of    the  courtier he     galls his   kibe.—How long hast thou been      a     grave-maker?

FIRST      CLOWN.

Of   all    the  days i’     th’   year,       I      came      to’t  that day  that our       last  King Hamlet   o’ercame Fortinbras.

HAMLET.

How long is     that since?

FIRST      CLOWN.

Cannot   you       tell that?     Every    fool       can       tell that.     It     was       the very      day       that      young Hamlet     was       born,—he      that is     mad,      and sent into England.

HAMLET.

Ay,  marry,    why was he   sent into England?

FIRST      CLOWN.

Why,      because he   was mad;      he   shall recover   his   wits there;       or    if     he   do   not, it’s   no great matter    there.

HAMLET.

Why?

FIRST      CLOWN.

’Twill      not  be   seen in    him there;     there      the  men are  as    mad       as    he.

HAMLET.

How came      he   mad?

FIRST      CLOWN.

Very strangely,      they say.

HAMLET.

How strangely?

FIRST      CLOWN.

Faith,      e’en with losing     his   wits.

HAMLET.

Upon      what       ground?

FIRST      CLOWN.

Why,      here in    Denmark.      I      have       been      sexton    here,       man and boy, thirty      years.

HAMLET.

How long will  a     man lie    i’     th’earth  ere  he   rot?

FIRST      CLOWN.

Faith,      if    he  be  not rotten   before   he  die,—as we have     many      pocky   corses nowadays that will  scarce    hold the  laying       in,—he   will  last  you some      eight      year or    nine year.       A       tanner    will  last  you nine year.

HAMLET.

Why he   more      than another?

FIRST      CLOWN.

Why,      sir,   his   hide is     so    tann’d    with his   trade      that he   will       keep       out  water      a     great while.   And your water      is     a       sore decayer  of    your whoreson      dead      body.      Here’s    a skull now;       this  skull hath lain  in    the  earth      three-and-twenty years.

HAMLET.

Whose    was it?

FIRST      CLOWN.

A     whoreson,     mad fellow’s   it     was. Whose    do   you think      it       was?

HAMLET.

Nay, I      know      not.

FIRST      CLOWN.

A     pestilence      on   him for   a     mad rogue!    A     pour’d    a       flagon    of    Rhenish  on   my  head once.    This same      skull,       sir,   was Yorick’s  skull,      the  King’s     jester.

HAMLET.

This?

FIRST      CLOWN.

E’en that.

HAMLET.

Let  me  see. [ Takes   the  skull. ]     Alas, poor       Yorick.    I      knew       him, Horatio,  a     fellow     of infinite       jest, of    most      excellent       fancy.     He   hath borne     me  on   his   back       a     thousand times;     and now,       how abhorred in    my  imagination   it     is!    My       gorge     rises at    it.    Here hung     those      lips  that I      have       kiss’d      I      know      not  how oft.  Where    be   your gibes      now?

your gambols?      your songs?    your flashes    of    merriment,    that were       wont      to    set   the table on a    roar?     Not       one       now,       to  mock    your      own      grinning?     Quite    chop-fallen?

Now       get you       to  my lady’s    chamber,     and       tell her,       let  her paint     an  inch      thick,    to this   favour   she must      come.   Make    her laugh    at  that.—Prythee,   Horatio, tell  me one thing.

HORATIO.

What’s    that, my  lord?

HAMLET.

Dost thou think      Alexander      looked    o’    this  fashion   i’     th’earth?

HORATIO.

E’en so.

HAMLET.

And smelt      so?  Pah!

[ Throws down      the  skull. ]

HORATIO.

E’en so,   my  lord.

HAMLET.

To   what       base uses we   may return,    Horatio!  Why may not       imagination   trace      the noble       dust of    Alexander      till   he       find it     stopping a     bung-hole?

HORATIO.

’Twere    to    consider too  curiously to    consider so.

HAMLET.

No,  faith,     not a    jot. But to  follow   him       thither  with      modesty enough,       and likelihood     to    lead it;    as    thus.       Alexander      died,       Alexander      was buried,   Alexander returneth       into      dust;     the dust      is   earth;    of  earth    we   make    loam;    and       why      of  that loam     whereto  he       was converted      might     they not  stop a     beer-barrel?

Imperious      Caesar,   dead      and turn’d     to    clay,

Might     stop a     hole to    keep       the  wind       away.

O,    that that earth      which     kept the  world      in    awe

Should   patch     a     wall t’expel    the  winter’s  flaw.

But  soft! but  soft! aside!     Here       comes    the  King.

Enter      PRIESTS,      &C,        in    procession;    the  corpse    of    OPHELIA,       LAERTES       and MOURNERS   following; KING,    QUEEN,        their Trains,    &c.

The Queen,   the  courtiers. Who       is     that they follow?

And with such maimed  rites?      This doth       betoken The  corse      they       follow     did  with desperate      hand

Fordo     it     own life.  ’Twas      of    some      estate.

Couch    we   awhile    and mark.

[ Retiring with HORATIO . ]

LAERTES.

What      ceremony      else?

HAMLET.

That is     Laertes,  a     very noble     youth.    Mark.

LAERTES.

What      ceremony      else?

PRIEST.

Her  obsequies      have       been      as    far   enlarg’d

As   we   have       warranties.    Her  death     was doubtful;

And but  that great      command      o’ersways      the  order,

She should    in    ground   unsanctified   have       lodg’d

Till   the  last  trumpet. For  charitable      prayers,

Shards,   flints,      and pebbles  should    be   thrown   on   her.

Yet  here she  is     allowed  her  virgin      rites,

Her  maiden   strewments,   and the  bringing home

Of   bell  and burial.

LAERTES.

Must      there      no   more      be   done?

PRIEST.

No   more      be   done.

We  should    profane  the  service    of    the  dead

To   sing sage requiem and such rest to    her

As   to    peace-parted souls.

LAERTES.

Lay  her  i’     th’earth,

And from       her  fair  and unpolluted    flesh

May violets    spring.    I      tell  thee,      churlish  priest,

A     minist’ring     angel      shall my  sister      be

When     thou liest howling.

HAMLET.

What,     the  fair  Ophelia?

QUEEN.

[ Scattering    flowers. ] Sweets   to    the  sweet.    Farewell.

I      hop’d     thou shouldst have       been      my  Hamlet’s wife;

I      thought  thy  bride-bed      to    have       deck’d,   sweet     maid,

And not  have       strew’d   thy  grave.

LAERTES.

O,    treble     woe

Fall  ten  times      treble     on   that cursed    head

Whose    wicked    deed      thy  most      ingenious      sense

Depriv’d thee of.   Hold       off   the  earth      a     while,

Till   I      have       caught   her  once       more      in    mine      arms.

[ Leaps   into the  grave. ]

Now       pile  your dust upon      the  quick      and dead,

Till   of    this  flat  a     mountain      you have       made,

To   o’ertop   old  Pelion     or    the  skyish     head

Of   blue Olympus.

HAMLET.

[ Advancing. ]

What      is     he   whose    grief

Bears      such an   emphasis?     whose    phrase    of    sorrow

Conjures the  wand’ring      stars,      and makes    them      stand

Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is     I,

Hamlet   the  Dane.

[ Leaps   into the  grave. ]

LAERTES.

[ Grappling    with him. ]      The devil       take thy  soul!

HAMLET.

Thou      pray’st    not  well.

I      prythee  take thy  fingers    from       my  throat;

For  though   I      am  not  splenative      and rash,

Yet  have       I      in    me  something     dangerous,

Which    let   thy  wiseness fear. Away      thy  hand!

KING.

Pluck      them      asunder.

QUEEN.

Hamlet!  Hamlet!

All.

Gentlemen!

HORATIO.

Good      my  lord, be   quiet.

[ The      ATTENDANTS     part them,     and they come      out  of    the       grave. ]

HAMLET.

Why,      I      will  fight with him upon      this  theme

Until my  eyelids    will  no   longer    wag.

QUEEN.

O    my  son, what       theme?

HAMLET.

I      lov’d       Ophelia; forty thousand       brothers

Could     not, with all    their quantity of    love,

Make      up   my  sum.       What      wilt  thou do   for   her?

KING.

O,    he   is     mad,      Laertes.

QUEEN.

For  love of    God forbear   him!

HAMLET.

’Swounds,      show      me  what       thou’lt    do:

Woul’t    weep?    woul’t     fight?      woul’t     fast? woul’t     tear thyself?

Woul’t    drink      up   eisel?      eat  a     crocodile?

I’ll    do’t. Dost thou come      here to    whine?

To   outface   me  with leaping   in    her  grave?

Be   buried    quick      with her, and so    will  I.

And if     thou prate      of    mountains,    let   them      throw

Millions  of    acres      on   us,   till   our  ground,

Singeing his   pate against   the  burning  zone,

Make      Ossa       like  a     wart.       Nay, an   thou’lt    mouth,

I’ll    rant as    well as    thou.

QUEEN.

This is     mere      madness:

And thus awhile    the  fit    will  work       on   him;

Anon,     as    patient   as    the  female    dove,

When     that her  golden   couplets are  disclos’d,

His  silence    will  sit    drooping.

HAMLET.

Hear       you, sir;

What      is     the  reason    that you use  me  thus?

I      lov’d       you ever.       But  it     is     no   matter.

Let  Hercules himself   do   what       he   may,

The cat  will  mew,      and dog will  have       his   day.

[ Exit. ]

KING.

I      pray thee,      good      Horatio,  wait upon      him.

[ Exit       HORATIO . ]

[ To Laertes]

Strengthen    your patience in    our  last  night’s    speech;

We’ll       put  the  matter    to    the  present   push.—

Good      Gertrude,       set   some      watch     over your son.

This grave      shall have       a     living      monument.

An   hour       of    quiet      shortly    shall we   see;

Till   then in    patience our  proceeding    be.

[ Exeunt. ]

SCENE    II.     A     hall  in    the  Castle.

Enter      HAMLET      and HORATIO .

HAMLET.

So   much     for   this, sir.   Now       let   me  see  the  other;

You do   remember     all    the  circumstance?

HORATIO.

Remember    it,    my  lord!

HAMLET.

Sir,  in    my  heart      there      was a     kind of    fighting

That would     not  let   me  sleep.     Methought    I      lay

Worse    than the  mutinies in    the  bilboes.  Rashly,

And prais’d    be   rashness for   it,—let    us    know,

Our indiscretion   sometime      serves     us    well,

When     our  deep      plots       do   pall; and that should    teach      us

There’s   a     divinity   that shapes   our  ends,

Rough-hew   them      how we   will.

HORATIO.

That is     most      certain.

HAMLET.

Up   from       my  cabin,

My  sea-gown      scarf’d    about     me, in    the  dark

Grop’d    I      to    find out  them;     had my  desire,

Finger’d  their packet,   and in    fine, withdrew

To   mine      own room      again,     making   so    bold,

My  fears       forgetting      manners, to    unseal

Their      grand     commission;  where     I      found,    Horatio,

Oh  royal       knavery! an   exact      command,

Larded    with many      several   sorts       of    reasons,

Importing      Denmark’s     health,    and England’s      too,

With       ho!  such bugs       and goblins   in    my  life,

That on   the  supervise,      no   leisure    bated,

No,  not  to    stay the  grinding of    the  axe,

My  head      should    be   struck     off.

HORATIO.

Is’t   possible?

HAMLET.

Here’s    the  commission,  read it     at    more      leisure.

But  wilt  thou hear me  how I      did  proceed?

HORATIO.

I      beseech you.

HAMLET.

Being     thus benetted round     with villanies,—

Or   I      could      make      a     prologue to    my  brains,

They       had begun    the  play,—I   sat   me  down,

Devis’d   a     new commission,  wrote     it     fair:

I      once       did  hold it,    as    our  statists   do,

A     baseness to    write       fair, and labour’d much

How to    forget     that learning; but, sir,   now

It     did  me  yeoman’s      service.   Wilt thou know The      effect      of       what       I      wrote?

HORATIO.

Ay,  good      my  lord.

HAMLET.

An   earnest   conjuration    from       the  King,

As   England  was his   faithful   tributary,

As   love between them      like  the  palm      might     flourish,

As   peace     should    still  her  wheaten garland  wear

And stand      a     comma   ’tween    their amities,

And many      such-like ‘as’es      of    great      charge,

That on   the  view and know      of    these      contents,

Without  debatement  further,   more      or    less,

He   should    the  bearers   put  to    sudden   death,

Not shriving-time allow’d.

HORATIO.

How was this  seal’d?

HAMLET.

Why,      even       in    that was heaven   ordinant.

I      had my  father’s   signet     in    my  purse,

Which    was the  model    of    that Danish    seal:

Folded    the  writ up   in    the  form       of    the  other,

Subscrib’d     it:    gave’t     th’impression; plac’d     it     safely,

The changeling    never      known.   Now,      the  next day

Was our  sea-fight,      and what       to    this  was sequent

Thou      know’st  already.

HORATIO.

So   Guildenstern  and Rosencrantz  go   to’t.

HAMLET.

Why,      man,      they did  make      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.

HORATIO.

Why,      what       a     king is     this!

HAMLET.

Does      it     not, thinks’t   thee,      stand      me  now upon,—

He   that hath kill’d my  king,       and whor’d    my  mother,

Popp’d   in    between th’election     and my  hopes,

Thrown   out  his   angle      for   my  proper    life,

And with such cozenage—is’t      not  perfect   conscience

To   quit him with this  arm?       And is’t   not  to    be   damn’d

To   let   this  canker    of    our  nature    come

In    further    evil?

HORATIO.

It     must      be   shortly    known    to    him from       England

What      is     the  issue      of    the  business there.

HAMLET.

It     will  be   short.     The interim   is     mine;

And 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’ll    court      his   favours.

But  sure the  bravery   of    his   grief did  put  me

Into a     tow’ring  passion.

HORATIO.

Peace,    who comes    here?

Enter      OSRIC .

OSRIC.

Your       lordship  is     right       welcome back       to    Denmark.

HAMLET.

I      humbly   thank     you, sir.   Dost know      this  waterfly?

HORATIO.

No,  my  good      lord.

HAMLET.

Thy  state       is     the  more      gracious; for   ’tis   a     vice to    know       him. He   hath much     land, and fertile;   let  a    beast    be  lord       of  beasts,  and       his crib       shall     stand    at  the king’s mess;   ’tis   a     chough;  but, as    I      say, spacious in    the       possession    of    dirt.

OSRIC.

Sweet     lord, if     your lordship  were       at    leisure,   I      should       impart    a     thing      to    you from his  Majesty.

HAMLET.

I      will  receive   it     with all    diligence of    spirit.      Put  your bonnet       to    his   right       use; ’tis for     the  head.

OSRIC.

I      thank     your lordship, ’tis   very hot.

HAMLET.

No,  believe   me, ’tis   very cold,       the  wind       is     northerly.

OSRIC.

It     is     indifferent     cold,       my  lord, indeed.

HAMLET.

Methinks it     is     very sultry      and hot  for   my  complexion.

OSRIC.

Exceedingly,  my lord;      it   is   very      sultry,—as   ’twere—I      cannot   tell how.     But,      my lord,       his   Majesty  bade      me       signify    to    you that he   has  laid  a     great      wager     on   your head.      Sir,  this  is     the  matter,—

HAMLET.

I      beseech you, remember,—

[HAMLET      moves    him to    put  on   his   hat. ]

OSRIC.

Nay, in    good      faith;      for   mine      ease,      in    good      faith.       Sir,  here is     newly     come      to    court Laertes; believe   me, an       absolute gentleman,    full  of    most      excellent differences,    of very soft society   and great      showing. Indeed,   to    speak     feelingly       of    him, he   is     the card  or    calendar of    gentry;   for   you shall       find in    him the  continent      of    what       part a gentleman       would     see.

HAMLET.

Sir,  his definement  suffers  no perdition      in   you,      though I      know,   to  divide   him inventorially would   dizzy     th’arithmetic  of  memory,      and       yet but yaw      neither, in respect   of    his   quick      sail. But, in    the  verity      of    extolment,     I       take him to    be   a     soul of    great    article   and       his infusion  of  such     dearth  and       rareness       as, to  make    true diction    of  him,      his semblable    is   his mirror   and       who else      would   trace     him       his umbrage,       nothing more.

OSRIC.

Your       lordship  speaks    most      infallibly of    him.

HAMLET.

The concernancy, sir?  Why do   we   wrap       the  gentleman     in    our       more      rawer      breath?

OSRIC.

Sir?

HORATIO.

Is’t   not  possible  to    understand    in    another  tongue?  You will  do’t,       sir,   really.

HAMLET.

What      imports  the  nomination   of    this  gentleman?

OSRIC.

Of   Laertes?

HORATIO.

His  purse      is     empty    already,  all’s golden   words     are  spent.

HAMLET.

Of   him, sir.

OSRIC.

I      know      you are  not  ignorant,—

HAMLET.

I      would     you did, sir;   yet  in    faith if     you did, it     would     not       much     approve  me. Well, sir?

OSRIC.

You are  not  ignorant of    what       excellence     Laertes   is,—

HAMLET.

I      dare      not confess that,     lest I     should  compare      with him       in   excellence;   but to know a     man well were       to       know      himself.

OSRIC.

I      mean,   sir, for his weapon;      but in   the imputation   laid       on him,      by  them    in   his meed      he’s unfellowed.

HAMLET.

What’s    his   weapon?

OSRIC.

Rapier    and dagger.

HAMLET.

That’s     two of    his   weapons.       But  well.

OSRIC.

The King,     sir, hath     wager’d with      him       six  Barbary horses,   against the which   he has  imponed,       as    I      take it,       six   French    rapiers    and poniards, with their assigns,  as girdle, hangers, and       so. Three    of  the carriages,     in   faith,     are very dear      to  fancy, very   responsive     to    the  hilts, most       delicate  carriages,      and of    very liberal     conceit.

HAMLET.

What      call  you the  carriages?

HORATIO.

I      knew      you must      be   edified    by   the  margin   ere  you had       done.

OSRIC.

The carriages,      sir,   are  the  hangers.

HAMLET.

The phrase    would     be   more      german  to    the  matter    if     we       could      carry       cannon   by   our sides.       I      would     it       might     be   hangers  till   then.      But  on.  Six   Barbary  horses       against six     French    swords,   their assigns,  and three      liberal       conceited      carriages:      that’s      the French     bet  against   the       Danish.   Why is     this  all    imponed,       as    you call  it?

OSRIC.

The King,      sir,   hath laid  that in    a     dozen     passes    between you       and him, he   shall not exceed    you       three    hits.      He hath laid       on twelve   for nine.     And      it   would   come    to immediate trial if     your lordship  would     vouchsafe      the  answer.

HAMLET.

How if     I      answer   no?

OSRIC.

I      mean,     my  lord, the  opposition     of    your person    in    trial.

HAMLET.

Sir,  I      will  walk here in    the  hall. If     it     please    his   Majesty, it       is     the  breathing      time of day     with me. Let  the  foils be       brought, the  gentleman     willing,   and the  King hold his  purpose, I       will  win  for   him if     I      can; if     not, I      will  gain nothing  but       my  shame and    the  odd hits.

OSRIC.

Shall       I      re-deliver      you e’en so?

HAMLET.

To   this  effect,     sir;   after what       flourish   your nature    will.

OSRIC.

I      commend      my  duty to    your lordship.

HAMLET.

Yours,     yours.

[ Exit       OSRIC . ]

He   does       well to    commend      it     himself,  there      are  no       tongues  else for’s turn.

HORATIO.

This lapwing  runs away      with the  shell on   his   head.

HAMLET.

He   did  comply   with his   dug before    he   suck’d    it.    Thus       has       he,—and many      more of  the  same      bevy       that I      know       the  drossy    age dotes      on,—      only got  the  tune of    the time       and outward habit      of    encounter;     a     kind of    yeasty       collection,     which     carries them  through  and through  the  most       fanned   and winnowed     opinions; and do   but blow them      to       their trial, the  bubbles  are  out,

Enter      a     LORD .

LORD.

My  lord, his   Majesty  commended  him to    you by   young    Osric,       who brings     back to   him that you attend    him in    the  hall. He       sends     to    know      if     your pleasure hold to play    with Laertes       or    that you will  take longer    time.

HAMLET.

I      am constant      to  my purposes,     they      follow   the King’s     pleasure.      If    his fitness speaks,     mine      is     ready.       Now       or    whensoever,  provided I      be   so    able as    now.

LORD.

The King and Queen    and all    are  coming   down.

HAMLET.

In    happy     time.

LORD.

The Queen  desires  you       to  use some    gentle   entertainment      to  Laertes before   you fall to    play.

HAMLET.

She well instructs me.

[ Exit       LORD . ]

HORATIO.

You will  lose this  wager,    my  lord.

HAMLET.

I      do   not  think      so.   Since      he   went       into France,   I      have       been      in    continual practice. I shall     win at  the odds.    But thou wouldst not think     how      ill   all’s       here      about   my heart:     but  it     is     no   matter.

HORATIO.

Nay, good      my  lord.

HAMLET.

It     is     but  foolery;   but  it     is     such a     kind of    gain-giving   as       would     perhaps  trouble   a woman.

HORATIO.

If     your mind      dislike     anything, obey       it.    I      will  forestall  their       repair     hither,    and say you   are  not  fit.

HAMLET.

Not a     whit,       we   defy augury.   There’s   a     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   is’t   to    leave      betimes?

Enter      KING,    QUEEN,  LAERTES, LORDS,   OSRIC    and ATTENDANTS      with foils &c.

KING.

Come,    Hamlet,  come,     and take this  hand      from       me.

[ The      KING    puts LAERTES’S   hand      into HAMLET’S . ]

HAMLET.

Give me  your pardon,  sir.   I      have       done      you wrong;

But  pardon’t as    you are  a     gentleman.

This presence knows,    and you must      needs     have       heard,

How I      am  punish’d with sore distraction.

What      I      have       done

That might     your nature,   honour,  and exception

Roughly  awake,    I      here proclaim was madness.

Was’t      Hamlet   wrong’d  Laertes?  Never     Hamlet.

If     Hamlet   from       himself   be   ta’en      away,

And when      he’s not  himself   does       wrong    Laertes,

Then      Hamlet   does       it     not, Hamlet   denies    it.

Who       does       it,    then?      His  madness.       If’t   be   so, Hamlet       is     of    the  faction    that is     wrong’d;

His  madness is     poor       Hamlet’s enemy.

Sir,  in    this  audience,

Let  my  disclaiming    from       a     purpos’d evil

Free me  so    far   in    your most      generous       thoughts

That I      have       shot my  arrow     o’er the  house

And hurt my  brother.

LAERTES.

I      am  satisfied  in    nature,

Whose    motive    in    this  case should    stir  me  most

To   my  revenge. But  in    my  terms     of    honour

I      stand      aloof,      and will  no   reconcilement

Till   by   some      elder      masters  of    known    honour

I      have       a     voice      and precedent      of    peace

To   keep       my  name     ungor’d. But  till   that time

I      do   receive   your offer’d    love like  love,

And will  not  wrong    it.

HAMLET.

I      embrace it     freely,

And will  this  brother’s wager     frankly    play.—

Give us    the  foils; come      on.

LAERTES.

Come,    one for   me.

HAMLET.

I’ll    be   your foil,  Laertes;  in    mine      ignorance

Your       skill shall like  a     star i’     th’   darkest   night,

Stick fiery off   indeed.

LAERTES.

You mock      me, sir.

HAMLET.

No,  by   this  hand.

KING.

Give them      the  foils, young    Osric.     Cousin    Hamlet,

You know      the  wager?

HAMLET.

Very well, my  lord.

Your       Grace     has  laid  the  odds       o’    the  weaker   side.

KING.

I      do   not  fear it.    I      have       seen you both;

But  since      he   is     better’d, we   have       therefore odds.

LAERTES.

This is     too  heavy.    Let  me  see  another.

HAMLET.

This likes me  well. These     foils have       all    a     length?

[ They     prepare  to    play. ]

OSRIC.

Ay,  my  good      lord.

KING.

Set  me  the  stoups    of    wine upon      that table.

If     Hamlet   give the  first or    second   hit,

Or   quit in    answer   of    the  third       exchange,

Let  all    the  battlements   their ordnance       fire;

The King shall drink      to    Hamlet’s better     breath,

And in    the  cup an   union     shall he   throw

Richer     than that which     four successive     kings

In    Denmark’s     crown     have       worn.      Give me  the  cups;

And let   the  kettle      to    the  trumpet  speak,

The trumpet  to    the  cannoneer     without,

The cannons to    the  heavens, the  heavens to    earth,

‘Now      the  King drinks     to    Hamlet.’ Come,    begin.

And you, the  judges,   bear a     wary       eye.

HAMLET.

Come     on,  sir.

LAERTES.

Come,    my  lord.

[ They     play. ]

HAMLET.

One.

LAERTES.

No.

HAMLET.

Judgment.

OSRIC.

A     hit,  a     very palpable hit.

LAERTES.

Well;       again.

KING.

Stay,       give me  drink.      Hamlet,  this  pearl      is     thine;

Here’s    to    thy  health.

[ Trumpets     sound,    and cannon   shot off   within. ]

Give him the  cup.

HAMLET.

I’ll    play this  bout       first; set   it     by   awhile.

[ They     play. ]

Come.    Another  hit;  what       say  you?

LAERTES.

A     touch,    a     touch,    I      do   confess.

KING.

Our son  shall win.

QUEEN.

He’s fat,  and scant      of    breath.

Here,      Hamlet,  take my  napkin,   rub  thy  brows.

The Queen    carouses to    thy  fortune,  Hamlet.

HAMLET.

Good      madam.

KING.

Gertrude,       do   not  drink.

QUEEN.

I      will, my  lord; I      pray you pardon   me.

KING.

[ Aside. ] It     is     the  poison’d cup; it     is     too  late.

HAMLET.

I      dare not  drink      yet,  madam.  By   and by.

QUEEN.

Come,    let   me  wipe       thy  face.

LAERTES.

My  lord, I’ll    hit   him now.

KING.

I      do   not  think’t.

LAERTES.

[ Aside. ] And yet  ’tis   almost    ’gainst    my  conscience.

HAMLET.

Come     for   the  third,      Laertes.  You do   but  dally.

I      pray you pass with your best violence.

I      am  afeard    you make      a     wanton   of    me.

LAERTES.

Say  you so?  Come     on.

[ They     play. ]

OSRIC.

Nothing  neither   way.

LAERTES.

Have      at    you now.

[LAERTES      wounds  HAMLET;     then,      in    scuffling, they change       rapiers,   and HAMLET

wounds  LAERTES . ]

KING.

Part them;     they are  incens’d.

HAMLET.

Nay, come      again!

[ The      QUEEN        falls. ]

OSRIC.

Look       to    the  Queen    there,     ho!

HORATIO.

They       bleed      on   both       sides.      How is     it,    my  lord?

OSRIC.

How is’t,  Laertes?

LAERTES.

Why,      as    a     woodcock      to    my  own springe,  Osric.

I      am  justly      kill’d with mine      own treachery.

HAMLET.

How does       the  Queen?

KING.

She swoons   to    see  them      bleed.

QUEEN.

No,  no,  the  drink,      the  drink!     O    my  dear Hamlet!

The drink,      the  drink!     I      am  poison’d.

[ Dies. ]

HAMLET.

O    villany!   Ho!  Let  the  door       be   lock’d:

Treachery!     Seek       it     out.

[LAERTES      falls. ]

LAERTES.

It     is     here,      Hamlet.  Hamlet,  thou art   slain.

No   medicine in    the  world      can  do   thee good.

In    thee there      is     not  half an   hour       of    life;

The treacherous   instrument    is     in    thy  hand,

Unbated and envenom’d.   The foul practice

Hath       turn’d     itself on   me. Lo,   here I      lie,

Never     to    rise  again.     Thy  mother’s poison’d.

I      can  no   more.     The King,      the  King’s     to    blame.

HAMLET.

The point      envenom’d    too!

Then,      venom,   to    thy  work.

[ Stabs    the  KING . ]

OSRIC     and LORDS.

Treason! treason!

KING.

O    yet  defend   me, friends.   I      am  but  hurt.

HAMLET.

Here,      thou incestuous,    murderous,    damned Dane,

Drink      off   this  potion.   Is     thy  union     here?

Follow    my  mother.

[KING     dies. ]

LAERTES.

He   is     justly      serv’d.

It     is     a     poison    temper’d by   himself.

Exchange      forgiveness    with me, noble     Hamlet.

Mine      and my  father’s   death     come      not  upon      thee,

Nor thine      on   me.

[ Dies. ]

HAMLET.

Heaven  make      thee free of    it!    I      follow     thee.

I      am  dead,      Horatio.  Wretched      Queen,   adieu.

You that look pale and tremble  at    this  chance,

That are  but  mutes     or    audience to    this  act,

Had I      but  time,—as       this  fell   sergeant, death,

Is     strict       in    his   arrest,—O,     I      could      tell  you,—

But  let   it     be.  Horatio,  I      am  dead,

Thou      liv’st;      report     me  and my  cause     aright

To   the  unsatisfied.

HORATIO.

Never     believe   it.

I      am  more      an   antique  Roman   than a     Dane.

Here’s    yet  some      liquor     left.

HAMLET.

As   th’art      a     man,

Give me  the  cup. Let  go;  by   Heaven,  I’ll    have’t.

O    good      Horatio,  what       a     wounded       name,

Things    standing thus unknown,      shall live  behind   me.

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.

[ March  afar off,  and shot within. ]

What      warlike   noise      is     this?

OSRIC.

Young    Fortinbras,     with conquest come      from       Poland,

To   the  ambassadors of    England  gives

This warlike   volley.

HAMLET.

O,    I      die,  Horatio.

The potent    poison    quite      o’er-crows     my  spirit:

I      cannot   live  to    hear the  news      from       England,

But  I      do   prophesy       th’election     lights

On  Fortinbras.     He   has  my  dying      voice.

So   tell  him, with the  occurrents     more      and less,

Which    have       solicited. The rest is     silence.

[ Dies. ]

HORATIO.

Now       cracks     a     noble     heart.     Good      night,     sweet       prince,

And flights     of    angels    sing thee to    thy  rest.

Why does       the  drum      come      hither?

[ March  within. ]

Enter      FORTINBRAS,      THE ENGLISH AMBASSADORS   and others.

FORTINBRAS.

Where    is     this  sight?

HORATIO.

What      is     it     you would     see?

If     aught     of    woe or    wonder,  cease     your search.

FORTINBRAS.

This quarry    cries on   havoc.    O    proud     death,

What      feast       is     toward   in    thine      eternal   cell,

That thou so    many      princes   at    a     shot

So   bloodily  hast struck?

FIRST      AMBASSADOR.

The sight       is     dismal;

And our  affairs     from       England  come      too  late.

The ears are  senseless that should    give us    hearing,

To   tell  him his   commandment     is     fulfill’d,

That Rosencrantz  and Guildenstern  are  dead.

Where    should    we   have       our  thanks?

HORATIO.

Not from       his   mouth,

Had it     th’ability of    life   to    thank     you.

He   never      gave       commandment     for   their death.

But  since,     so    jump      upon      this  bloody    question,

You from       the  Polack    wars,      and you from       England

Are  here arriv’d,    give order      that these      bodies

High       on   a     stage      be   placed    to    the  view,

And let   me  speak     to    th’   yet  unknowing    world

How these      things     came      about.    So   shall you hear

Of   carnal,    bloody    and unnatural      acts,

Of   accidental     judgments,    casual    slaughters,

Of   deaths    put  on   by   cunning  and forc’d     cause,

And, in    this  upshot,   purposes mistook

Fall’n      on   the  inventors’      heads.    All   this  can  I

Truly       deliver.

FORTINBRAS.

Let  us    haste      to    hear it,

And call  the  noblest   to    the  audience.

For  me, with sorrow    I      embrace my  fortune.

I      have       some      rights     of    memory in    this  kingdom,

Which    now to    claim      my  vantage  doth       invite      me.

HORATIO.

Of   that I      shall have       also cause     to    speak,

And from       his   mouth    whose    voice      will  draw       on   more.

But  let   this  same      be   presently perform’d,

Even       while      men’s     minds     are  wild, lest  more      mischance

On  plots       and errors     happen.

FORTINBRAS.

Let  four captains

Bear Hamlet   like  a     soldier    to    the  stage,

For  he   was likely,      had he   been      put  on,

To   have       prov’d    most      royally;   and for   his   passage,

The soldiers’  music     and the  rites of    war

Speak     loudly     for   him.

Take       up   the  bodies.   Such       a     sight       as    this

Becomes the  field,       but  here shows     much     amiss.

Go,  bid  the  soldiers  shoot.

[ A   dead      march. ]

[ Exeunt, bearing  off   the  bodies,   after which     a     peal of    ordnance       is     shot off. ]