Fran.
I think I hear them. Stand, hoa! who's there?

Hor.
Friends to this ground.

Mar.
And liege-men to the Dane.

Fran.
Good-night.

Mar.
Farewel, honest soldier. Who hath reliev'd you?

Fran.
Bernardo has my place: good-night. [Ex. Fran.

Mar.
Holla! Bernardo!

Ber.
Say, what, is Horatio there?

Hor.
A piece of him.

Ber.
Welcome, Horatio: welcome, good Marcellus.

Mar.
What, has this thing appear'd again, to-night?

Ber.
I have seen nothing.

Mar.
Horatio says 'tis but a phantasy,
And will not let belief take hold of him,
Touching the dreadful 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.

Hor.
'Twill not appear.

Ber.
Come, let us once again assail your ears,
That are so fortified against our story,
What we have two nights seen.

Hor.
Well, let us hear Bernardo speak of this.

Ber.
Last night of all,
When yon same star, that's westward from the Pole,
Had made his course to enlighten that part of heaven,
Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself,
The bell then beating one—

Mar.
Peace, break thee off— Enter Ghost* ^note.
Look, where it comes again.

Ber.
In the same figure, like the king that's dead.

Mar.
Speak to it, Horatio.

Ber.
Looks it not like the king?

Hor.
Most like: it startles me with fear and wonder.

Ber.
It would be spoke to.

Mar.
Speak to it, Horatio.

Hor.
What art thou, that usurp'st this time of night,
Together with that fair and warlike form,
In which the majesty of bury'd Denmark,
Did sometimes march? I charge thee speak.

Mar.
It is offended.

Ber.
See! it stalks away.

Hor.
Stay, speak, speak: I charge thee speak. [Exit Ghost.

Mar.
'Tis gone, and will not answer.

Ber.
How now, Horatio? you tremble, and look pale.
Is not this something more than phantasy?
What think you of it?

Hor.
I could not this believe,
Without the sensible and true avouch
Of mine own eyes.

Mar.
Is it not like the king?

Hor.
As thou art to thyself:
Such was the very armour he had on,
When th' ambitious Norway he combated.

Mar.
Thus twice before, and just at the same hour,
With martial stalk, hath he gone by our watch.

Hor.
In what particular thought to work, I know not.
But in the scope of mine opinion,
This bodes some strange eruption to our state.

Mar.
Pray tell me, he that knows* ^note,
Why this same strict and most observant watch
So nightly toils the subjects of the land?
And makes the night joint labourer with the day?
Who is't that can inform me?

Hor.
That can I; our last king,
Whose image e'en but now appear'd to us,
Was, as you know, by Fortinbrass of Norway,
Dar'd to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet
Did slay this Fortinbrass; who, by seal'd compact,

Well ratify'd by law and heraldry,
Did forfeit (with his life) all these his lands,
Which he stood seis'd of, to the conqueror:
Now, sir, young Fortinbrass,
Of unimproved mettle, hot and full,
Hath, in the skirts of Norway, here and there,
Shark'd up a list of lawless resolutes,
To recover those aforesaid lands
So by his father lost. And this, I take it,
Is the main motive of our preparations.

Ber.
I think it is no other, but even so. Enter Ghost again.

Hor.
But soft! behold! lo, where it comes again!
I'll cross it, tho' it blast me. Stay, illusion! [Spreading his arms.
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, [Cock crows.
Speak of it. Stay and speak—Stop it, Marcellus.

Mar.
'Tis gone— [Exit Ghost.
We do it wrong, being so majestical,
To offer it the shew of violence;
It is ever, as the air, invulnerable,
And our vain blows malicious mockery.

Ber.
It was about to speak, when the cock crew.

Hor.
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* ^note.
But look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill;
Break we our watch up, and by my advice
Let us impart what we have seen to-night,
Unto young Hamlet: Perhaps
This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him. SCENE II. The Palace. Enter King, Queen, Hamlet† ^note, Polonius, Laertes, Gentlemen, and Guards.

King.‡ ^note
Tho' 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,
Taken to wife. Nor have we herein barr'd
Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone
With this affair along.
But now, Laertes, what's the news with you?
You told us of some suit. What is't, Laertes?

Laer.
My dear lord,
Your leave and favour to return to France;

From whence, tho' willingly I came to Denmark,
To shew my duty in your coronation;
Yet now I must confess, that duty done,
My thoughts and wishes bend again tow'rds France;
And bow them to your gracious leave and favour.

King.
Have you your father's leave? what says Polonius?

Pol.
He hath, my lord, by laboursome petition,
Wrung from me my slow leave; and at the 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—

Ham.
A little more than kin, and less than kind.

King.
How is it, that the clouds still hang on you?

Ham.
Not so, my lord; I am too much i' th' sun.

Queen.
Good Hamlet, cast thy nightly colour off,
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark;
Do not, for ever, with thy veiled lids,
Seek for thy noble father in the dust;
Thou know'st 'tis common, all that live must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.

Ham.
Ay, madam, it is common.

Queen.
If it be,
Why seems it so particular with thee?

Ham.
Seems, Madam! Nay, it is; I know not seems.
'Tis not alone this mourning suit, good mother,
Together with all forms, modes, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly. These indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play;
But I have that within, which passeth shew;
These but the trappings, and the suits of woe* ^note.

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 his, and the survivor bound
In filial obligation, for some term,
To do obsequious sorrow. But to persevere
In obstinate condolement, does express
An impious stubborness
We pray you throw to earth
This unavailing woe, and think of us,
As of a father; and let the world take note,
You are the most immediate to our throne,
Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son* ^note.

Queen.
Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet;
I pray thee stay with us, go not to Wittenberg.

Ham.
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 at my heart; in grace whereof,
No jocund health that Denmark drinks, to-day,
But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell it. [Exeunt. Manet Hamlet† ^note.

Ham.
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-murder!
How weary, stale, and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it meerly. That it should come to this!
But two months dead? nay, not so much! not two—
So excellent a king,
So loving to my mother,

That he permitted not the winds of heav'n,
Visit her face too roughly!
Why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on; yet, within a month!—
Let me not think—frailty, thy name is woman!
A little month!—or ere those shoes were old,
With which she follow'd my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears—she—
Married with mine uncle,
My father's brother; but no more like my father,
Than I to Hercules.
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue. Enter Horatio, Bernardo, and Marcellus* ^note.

Hor.
Hail to your lordship!

Ham.
I'm glad to see you well:
Horatio, or I do forget myself.

Hor.
The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.

Ham.
Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name with you:
And what makes you from Wittenberg, Horatio?
Marcellus!—

Mar.
My good lord!—

Ham.
I'm very glad to see you; good morning, sir.
But what, in faith, makes you from Wittenberg?

Hor.
A truant disposition, good my lord.

Ham.
I would not hear your enemy say so;
Nor shall you do my ear that violence,
To be a witness of your own report,
Against yourself. I know you are no truant;
But what is your affair in Elsinoor?
We'll teach you to drink deep, ere you depart.

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

Ham.
I pr'ythee do not mock me, fellow student;
I think it was to see my mother's wedding.

Hor.
Indeed, my lord, it follow'd hard upon.

Ham.
Thrift, thrift, Horatio; the funeral bak'd meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
Would I had met my direst foe in heav'n,
Ere I had seen that day, Horatio!
My father—methinks I see my father* ^note.

Hor.
Where, my Lord?

Ham.
In my mind's eye, Horatio.

Hor.
I saw him once; he was a goodly King.

Ham.
He was a man, take him for all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again.

Hor.
My Lord, I think I saw him, yesternight.

Ham.
Saw! who?

Hor.
The King your father!

Ham.
The King my father!

Hor.
Defer your admiration, for a while,
With an attentive ear; till I deliver,
Upon the witness of these gentlemen,
This wonder to you.

Ham.
Pray let me hear.

Hor.
Two nights together had these gentlemen,
Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch,
In the dead waste and middle of the night,
Been thus encounter'd: a figure like your father,
Arm'd at all points exactly, cap à pe,
Appears before them, and with solemn march
Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk'd
Within their rapier's length; whilst they (distill'd
Almost to jelly with their 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† ^note.

Ham.
But where was this?

Mar.
My Lord, upon the platform where we watch'd.

Ham.
Did you not speak to it?

Hor.
My lord, I did.
But answer made it none; yet once methought
It lifted up its 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.

Ham.
'Tis very strange!

Hor.
As I do live, my honour'd Lord, 'tis true:
And we did think it then our duty
To let you know it.

Ham.
Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me:
Hold you the watch, to-night?

Both.
We do, my Lord.

Ham.
Arm'd, say you?

Both.
Arm'd, my Lord.

Ham.
From top to toe?

Both.
From head to foot.

Ham.
Then saw you not his face?

Hor.
O yes, my Lord, he wore his beaver up.

Ham.
What, look'd he frowningly?

Hor.
A count'nance more in sorrow, than in anger.

Ham.
Pale, or red?

Hor.
Nay, very pale.

Ham.
And fix'd his eyes upon you?

Hor.
Most constantly.

Ham.
I would I had been there!

Hor.
It would have much amaz'd you.

Ham.
Very like: staid it long?

Hor.
While one with mod'rate haste might tell a hundred.

All.
Longer, longer.

Hor.
Not when I saw't.

Ham.
His beard was grisly?

Hor.
It was, as I have seen it in his life.
A sable silver'd* ^note.

Ham.
I'll watch to-night; perchance 'twill walk again.

Hor.
I warrant you it will.

Ham.
If it assume my noble father's person,
I'll speak to it, tho' 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 treble in your silence still:
And whatsoever else may hap, to-night,
Give it an understanding, but no tongue;
I will requite your loves. So fare you well.
Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve,
I'll visit you. [Exeunt.

All.
Our duty to your honour.

Ham.
Your loves, as mine to you: farewel;
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,
Tho' all the earth o'erwhelm them to men's eyes. [Ex. Enter Laertes and Ophelia.

Laer.
My necessaries are embark'd; farewel.
And, sister, as the wind permits, pray
Let me hear from you.

Oph.
Do you doubt that?

Laer.
For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favours,
Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood,
A violet in the youth and prime of nature,
Forward, not permanent; tho' sweet, not lasting;
The perfume of a minute.

Oph.
No more but so?

Laer.
Think it no more:
He may not, as inferior persons do,

Carve for himself; for on his choice depends
The sanity and health of this whole state.
Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain,
If with too cred'lous ear you hear his passion.
Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister:
* ^noteThe chariest maid is prodigal enough,
If she unmask her beauty to the moon† ^note.

Oph.
I shall th' effect of this good lesson keep
About my heart: but, good my brother,
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do,
Shew me the steep and thorny way to heaven;
Whilst like a careless libertine,
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads.

Laer.
Oh, fear me not.
I stay too long; but here my father comes. Enter Polonius.

Pol.
Yet here? Laertes! get aboard, for shame,
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,
And you are staid for.‡ ^note

Laer.
Most humbly I do take my leave, my Lord.
Farewel, Ophelia, and remember well
What I have said to you.

Oph.
'Tis in my mem'ry lock'd,
And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

Laer.
Farewel.* ^note. [Ex. Laer.

Pol.
What is't, Ophelia, he has said to you?

Oph.
So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.

Pol.
Marry, well bethought!
'Tis told me he hath very oft of late
Giv'n 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.

Oph.
He hath, my Lord, of late made many tenders
Of his affection to me.

Pol.
Affection! pugh! you speak like a green girl,
Unsifted in such perilous circumstance.
Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?

Oph.
I do not know, my Lord, what I should think.

Pol.
Marry, I'll teach you; think yourself a baby,
That you have ta'en these tenders for your pay,
Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly;
Or you'll tender me a fool.

Oph.
My Lord, he hath importun'd me with love,
In honourable fashion.

Pol.
Ay, fashion, you may call it: go to, go to.

Oph.
And hath giv'n countenance to his speech, my lord,
With almost all the holy vows of heaven.

Pol.
Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know,
When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul
Lends the tongue vows. This is for all:
I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth,
Have you so slander any moment's leisure,
As to give words or talk with the lord Hamlet:
Look to't, I charge you; come your way.

Oph.
I shall obey, my lord. [Exeunt. SCENE III. The Platform before the Palace. Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus.

Ham.
The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold* ^note.

Hor.
It is a nipping and an eager air.

Ham.
What hour, now?

Hor.
I think it lacks of twelve.

Mar.
No, it is struck.

Hor.
I heard it not: then it draws near the season,
Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk. [Trumpets a tune.
What does this mean, my Lord?

Ham.
The King doth wake, to-night, and takes his rouse,
And as he takes his draught of rhenish down,
The kettle-drum and trumpet thus proclaim
The triumph of his pledge.

Hor.
Is it a custom?

Ham.
Ay, marry is't:
But to my mind, tho' I am native here,
And to the manner born, it is a custom
More honour'd in the breach, than the observance.

Enter Ghost.

Hor.
Look, my Lord, it comes!

Ham.* ^note
Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd;
Bring with thee airs from heav'n, or blasts from hell;
Be thy intent 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: Oh! answer me,
Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell
Why thy bones, hears'd in canonized earth,
Have burst their cearments? Why the sepulchre,
Wherein we saw thee quietly interr'd,
Hath ope'd his ponderous and marble jaws,
To cast thee up again? What may this mean?
That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel,
Revisitest thus the glimpses of the moon,
Making night hideous; and us 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 Ham.

Hor.
It beckons you to go away with it,
As if it some impartment did desire
To you alone.

Mar.
Look with what courteous action
It waves you to a more removed ground;
But do not go with it.

Hor.
No, by no means. [Holding Hamlet.

Ham.
It will not speak; then I will follow it.

Hor.
Do not, my Lord.

Ham.
Why, what should be the fear?
I value not my life;

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.

Hor.
What if it tempt you tow'rd the flood, my Lord?
Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff,
And there assume some other horrid form,
And draw you into madness?

Ham.
It waves me still:
Go on, I'll follow thee—

Mar.
You shall not go, my Lord.

Ham.
Hold off your hand.

Hor.
Be rul'd, you shall not go.

Ham.
My fate cries out,
And makes each petty art'ry in this body,
As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve:
Still am I call'd? unhand me, gentlemen— [Breaking from them.
By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me—
I say, away—Go on—I'll follow thee. [Ex. Ghost and Hamlet; Hor. and Mar. retiring on the opposite side. Enter Ghost and Hamlet.

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

Ghost.
Mark me.

Ham.
I will.

Ghost.
My hour is almost come,
When I to sulph'rous and tormenting flames
Must render up myself.

Ham.
Alas, poor ghost!

Ghost.
Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing
To what I shall unfold.

Ham.
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* ^note,

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 did'st ever thy dear father love—* ^note

Ham.
O Heaven!

Ghost.
Revenge his foul and most unnat'ral murder.

Ham.
Murder!

Ghost.
Murder most foul, as in the best it is;
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

Ham.
Haste me to know't, that I with wings as swift
As meditation, or the thoughts of love,
May fly to my revenge.

Ghost.
I find thee apt.—Now, Hamlet, hear:
'Tis given out, that, sleeping in my garden,
A serpent stung me: so the whole ear of Denmark
Is by a forged process of my death,
Rankly abus'd; for know, thou noble youth,
The serpent that did sting thy father's life,
Now wears his crown.

Ham.
O my prophetic soul! my uncle?

Ghost.
Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,
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 nat'ral gifts were poor,
To those of mine—

But soft, methinks I scent the morning air—
Brief let me be: Sleeping within my garden,
My custom always in the afternoon,
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole,
With juice of cursed hebonon in a phial,
And in the porches of mine ears did pour
The leperous distilment, whose effects
Hold such an enmity with blood of man,
That swift as quicksilver it courses thro'
The nat'ral gates and allies of the body;
So did it mine.
Thus was I sleeping, by a brother's hand,
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once bereft;
Cut off ev'n in the blossom of my sin,
Unhousel'd, unanointed, unanneal'd;
No reck'ning made, but sent to my account,
With all my imperfections on my head.

* ^noteHam.
O horrible! horrible! most horrible!

Ghost.
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 design
Against thy mother aught; leave her to heav'n,
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To goad and sting her. Fare thee well, at once!
The glow-worm shews the morning to be near,
And 'gins to pale his ineffectual fire† ^note.
Farewel; remember me. [Exit.

Ham.
O hold, my heart—
And you, my sinews, grow not instant old:
But bear me strongly 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 register of books, all forms and 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 heav'n:
O most pernicious woman!
O villain, villain, smiling damned villain!
My tables—meet it is I should set down,
That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;
At least I'm sure he may be so in Denmark. [Writing.
So, uncle, there you are; now to my word:
It is, farewel, remember me.
I have sworn it.

Hor. within.
My Lord, my Lord!

Mar. within.
Lord Hamlet!

Hor. within.
Heaven secure him!

Ham.
So be it.

Hor. within.
Illo, ho, ho, my Lord!

Ham.
Hillo, ho, ho, boy, come, bird, come. Enter Horatio and Marcellus.

Mar.
How it't, my noble Lord?

Hor.
What news, my Lord?

Ham.
O wonderful!

Hor.
Good my Lord, tell it.

Ham.
No, you'll reveal it.

Hor.
Not I, my Lord.

Ham.
How say you then, would heart of man once think it?—
But you'll be secret?

Both.
As death, my Lord.

Ham.
There's ne'er a villain dwelling in all Denmark,
But he's an arrant knave.

Hor.
There needs no ghost, my Lord, come from the grave,
To tell us this.

Ham.
Why, right; you're in 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;
(For every man has business and desire,
Such as it is)—and for my poor part,
I will go pray* ^note.

Hor.
These are but wild and windy words, my Lord.

Ham.
I'm sorry they offend you, heartily.

Hor.
There's no offence, my Lord.

Ham.
Yes, by St. 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'er-master't as you may: and now, good friends
As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers,
Grant me one poor request.

Hor.
What is't, my Lord?

Ham.
Never make known what you have seen, to-night.

Both.
My Lord, we will not.

Ham.
Nay, but swear't.

Hor.
In faith, my Lord, not I.

Mar.
Nor I, my Lord, in faith.

Ham.
Upon my sword.

Hor.
Propose the oath, my Lord.

Ham.
Never to speak of this you have seen—
Swear by my sword

Ghost, below.
Swear.

Hor.
O day and night! but this is wond'rous strange.

Ham.
And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.
There are more things in heav'n and earth, Horatio.
Than are dreamt of in our 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 encumbred thus, or head thus shak'd,
Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase,
As—well—we know—or, we could, an if we would—
Or such ambiguous giving out, denote
That you know aught of me. This do ye swear,
So grace and mercy at your most need help you!

Ghost.
Swear.

Ham.
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 friendship to you,
Shall never fail: Let us go in together;
And still your fingers on your lips, I pray.
The time is out of joint: oh cursed spight,
That ever I was born to set it right! [Exeunt.* ^note ACT II. SCENE I. An Apartment in Polonius's House. Enter Ophelia, meeting Polonius.

Pol.
How now, Ophelia, what's the matter?

Oph.
O, my Lord, my Lord! I have been so afrighted—

Pol.
With what?

Oph.
My Lord, as I was reading in my closet,
Prince Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac'd,
Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other—
Thus he comes before me.

Pol.
Mad for thy love!

Oph.
My Lord, I do not know,
But truly I do fear it.

Pol.
What said he?

Oph.
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: 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 of doors he went, without their help,
And to the last bended their light on me* ^note.

Pol.
This is the very extacy of love—
Have you given him any hard words, of late?

Oph.
No, my good Lord; but, as you did command,
I did repel his letters, and deny'd
His access to me.

Pol.
That hath made him mad:—
Come, go with me to the King,
This must be known.
Come, come away. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The Palace. Enter King, Queen, Rosencraus, and Guildenstern.

King.
Welcome, good Rosencraus, and Guildenstern.
Besides that we did long to see you,
The need we have to use you did provoke
Our hasty sending. Something you have heard
Of Hamlet's transformations; what it should be,
More than his father's death,
I cannot dream of. I entreat you both,
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
If aught, to us unknown, afflicts him thus,
That lies within our remedy.

Queen.
Good gentlemen, he hath much talk'd of you,
And sure I am, two men are not living
To whom he more adheres: if it will please you,
So to employ your time with us a-while,
Your visitation shall receive such thanks,
As fits a King's remembrance.

Ros.
Both your Majesties
Might, by the sov'reign power you have o'er us,
Put your dread pleasure, more into command,
Than to entreaty.

Guil.
But we both obey,
And here give up ourselves in the full bent,
To lay our service freely at your feet.

King.
Thanks, Rosencraus and gentle Guildenstern.

Queen.
I do beseech you instantly to visit
My too much changed son. Go, some of you,
And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is. [Exeunt Ros. and Guil. Enter Polonius.

Pol.
Now I do think, or else this brain of mine
Hunts not the trail of policy so sure,
As it had us'd to do, that I have found
The very cause of Hamlet's lunacy.

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

Pol.
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, as 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* ^note.

Queen.
More matter, with less art.

Pol.
Madam, I swear I use no art at all.
That he is mad, 'tis true, 'tis pity;
And pity 'tis, 'tis true; a foolish figure,
But farewel 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. Consider,
I have a daughter; have, while she is mine,
Who, in her duty and obedience, mark,
Hath giv'n 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—Thus in her excellent white bosom, these, &c.

Queen.
Came this from Hamlet to her?

Pol.
Good madam, stay a-while, I will be faithful.

Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.

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, while this machine is to him, Hamlet.

King.
But how hath she received his love?

Pol.
What do you think of me?

King.
As of a man faithful and honourable.

Pol.
I would fain prove so; but what might you,

Or my dear Majesty your Queen, here, think,
If I had play'd the desk or table-book,
Or look'd upon this love with idle sight.
No, I went round to work,
And my young mistress thus I charg'd:
Lord Hamlet is a Prince above thy sphere,
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, repelled, a short tale to make,
Fell to a sadness, then into a weakness,
Thence to a lightness, and by this declension,
Into the madness wherein he now raves,
And all we wail for.

King.
Do you think 'tis this?

Queen.
It may be very likely.

Pol.
Hath there been such a time (I'd fain know that)
That I have positively said that, 'tis so,
When it proved otherwise?

King.
Not that I know.

Pol.
Take this from this, if this be otherwise; [Pointing to his head and body.
If circumstances lead me, I will find
Where truth is hid, tho' it were hid indeed,
Within the centre.

King.
How may we try it farther?

Pol.
Sometimes he walks, for hours together,
Here in the lobby.

Queen.
So he does, indeed.

Pol.
At such a time I'll loose my daughter to him.
So please your Majesty to hide yourself
Behind the 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* ^note.

Queen.
But look, where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.

Pol.
Away, I do beseech you both, away. [Exeunt King and Queen.
I'll board him, presently.
How does my good Lord Hamlet?

Ham.
Excellent well.

Pol.
Do you know me, my Lord?

Ham.
Excellent well; you are a fishmonger.

Pol.
Not I, my Lord.

Ham.
Then I would you were as honest a man.

Pol.
Honest, my Lord?

Ham.
Ay, sir, to be honest, as this world goes,
Is to be one man pick'd out of ten thousand.

Pol.
That is very true, my Lord.

Ham.

For if the sun breeds maggots in a dead dog, being a god, kissing carrion—have you a daughter?

Pol.

I have, my Lord.

Ham.

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

Pol.

Still harping on my daughter! yet he knew [Aside] me not, at first, but said, I was a fishmonger; he is 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?

Ham.

Words, words, words.

Pol.

What is the matter, my Lord?

Ham.

Between who?

Pol.

I mean the matter that you read, my Lord.

Ham.

Slanders, sir; for the satirical rogue says here, that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber, and plumb-tree-gum, and that they have a most plentiful lack of

wit, together with most weak hams; all which, sir, tho' I most potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for you yourself, sir, shall grow old, as I am, if, like a crab, you could go backward* ^note.

Pol.
Tho' this be madness, yet there's method in't:
Will you walk out of the air, my Lord?

Ham.

Into my grave

Pol.

Marry, that's out of the air, indeed: how pregnant his replies are! a happiness that often madness hits on. My Lord, I will take my leave.

Ham.

You cannot take from me any thing that I would more willingly part withal, except my life.

Pol.

Fare you well, my Lord.

Ham.

These tedious old fools!