Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
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SCENE VIII.
Manet Hamlet.
Ham.
Ay, so, God b' w' ye: now I am alone.
Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
&wlquo;Is it not monstrous that this Player here,
-- 178 --
&wlquo;But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
&wlquo;Could force his soul so to his own conceit,
&wlquo;That, from her working, 2 note
all his visage wan'd:
&wlquo;Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect,
&wlquo;A broken voice, and his whole function suiting,
&wlquo;With forms, to his conceit? and all for nothing?
&wlquo;For Hecuba?
&wlquo;What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
&wlquo;That he should weep for her? what would he do,
&wlquo;Had he the motive and the cue for passion,
&wlquo;That I have? he would drown the stage with tears,
&wlquo;And cleave the gen'ral ear with horrid speech;
&wlquo;Make mad the guilty, and appall the free;
&wlquo;Confound the ign'rant, and amaze, indeed,
&wlquo;The very faculty of eyes and ears.—Yet I,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak,
Like John-a-dreams, 3 noteunpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing,—no, not for a King,
Upon whose property and most dear life
4 noteA damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward?
Who calls me villain, breaks my pate a-cross,
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face?
Tweaks me by th' nose, gives me the lye i'th' throat,
As deep as to the lungs? who does me this?
Yet I should take it—for it cannot be,
But I am pidgeon-liver'd, and lack gall
To make oppression bitter; or, ere this,
I should have fatted all the region kites
-- 179 --
With this slave's offal. Bloody, bawdy villain!
Remorseless, treacherous, letcherous, kindless villain!
Why, what an ass am I? this is most brave,
That I, the son of a dear father murthered,
Prompted to my revenge by heav'n and hell,
Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words,
And fall a cursing like a very drab—
A scullion,—fye upon't! foh!—about, my brain!—
I've heard, that guilty creatures, 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 murther though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ. I'll have these Players
Play something like the murther 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
5 noteMore relative than this: The Play's the thing,
Wherein I'll catch the Conscience of the King.
[Exit.
-- 180 --
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
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