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,
-- 28 --
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.
This in obedience hath my daughter shewn me,
And more concerning his solicitings,
As they fell out by time, by means, and place.
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,
-- 29 --
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.
-- 30 --
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
-- 31 --
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!
Enter Guildenstern and Rosencraus.
Pol.
You go to seek Lord Hamlet, there he is.
[Ex.
Ros.
Save you, sir.
Guild.
My honoured Lord.
Ros.
My dear Lord.
Ham.
My excellent good friends! how dost thou,
Guildenstern? ah, Rosencraus! good lads, how do you
both? well, what news?
Ros.
None, my Lord, but the world's grown honest.
Ham.
Then is doomsday near; sure your news is
not true? But, in the beaten way of friendship, what
makes you at Elsinoor?
Ros.
To visit you, my Lord; no other occasion.
Ham.
Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks:
but I thank you. Were you not sent for? Is it your
own inclining? Is it a free visitation? come, come,
deal justly with me; nay, speak.
Guil.
What should we say, my Lord?
Ham.
Any thing, but to the purpose. You were sent
for; there is a kind of confession in your looks, which
-- 32 --
your modesties have not craft enough to colour. I know
the good King and Queen have sent for you.
Ros.
To what end, my Lord?
Ham.
Nay, that you must teach me: but let me conjure
you, by the rights of our fellowships, by the consonancy
of our youth, by the obligation of our 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.
Ros.
What say you?
Ham.
Nay, then I have an eye of you; if you love
me, hold not off.
Guil.
My Lord, we were sent for.
Ham.
I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation
prevent your discovery, and your secresy to the King and
Queen moult no feather: I have, of late, but wherefore
I know not, lost all my mirth, foregone all custom
of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition,
that this goodly frame the earth, seems to me
a steril promontory; this most excellent canopy the
air, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why,
it appears nothing to me, but a foul and pestilent congregation
of vapours. What a piece of work is man* note!
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—nor woman neither; though by your smiling
you seem to say so.
Ros.
My Lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts.
Ham.
Why did you laugh then, when I said, Man
delights not me?
Ros.
To think, my Lord, if you delight not in man,
what lenten entertainment the players shall receive from
you: we met with them on the way, and hither are
they coming, to offer you service.
-- 33 --
Ham.
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;
and the lady shall speak her mind freely, or the blank
verse shall halt for't. What players are they?
Ros.
Even those you were wont to take such delight
in, the tragedians of the city.
Ham.
How chances it they travel? Their residence
both in reputation and profit was better, both ways. Do
they hold the same estimation they did, when I was in
the city? Are they so followed?
Ros.
No, indeed, they are not.
Ham.
It is not very strange; for my uncle is King of
Denmark, and those that would make mouths at him,
while my father lived, now give twenty, forty, fifty,
nay a hundred ducats apiece, for his picture in little:
there is something in this, more than natural, if philosophy
could find it out.
Guil.
Shall we call the players, my Lord?
Ham.
Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinoor: your
hands; th' appurtenance of welcome is fashion and
ceremony: but my uncle-father and aunt-mother are
deceived.
Guil.
In what, my dear lord?
Ham.
I am but mad north north-west; when the
wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a hernshaw.
Enter Polonius.
Pol.
Well be with you, gentlemen.
Ham.
Hark you, Guildenstern and Rosencraus, that
great baby that you see there, is not yet out of his swaddling-clouts.
Ros.
Haply he is the second time come to them; for
they say an old man is twice a child.
Ham.
I prophecy that he comes to tell me of the
players; mark it: you say right, sir, a Monday morning,
'twas then, indeed.
Pol.
My Lord, I have news to tell you.
-- 34 --
Ham.
My Lord, I have news to tell you; when Roscius
was an actor in Rome—
Pol.
The actors are come hither, my Lord.
Ham.
Buz, buz.
Pol.
Upon mine honour—
Ham.
Then came each actor on his ass—
Pol.
The best actors in the world, either for Tragedy,
Comedy, History, Pastoral, Pastoral-Comical,
Historical-Pastoral; ‘Scene undividable, or poem unlimited;’
Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too
light. For the law of wit and liberty, these are the
only men.
Ham.
O Jephtha, judge of Israel, what a treasure
hadst thou!
Pol.
What treasure had he, my Lord?
Ham.
Why, one fair daughter, and no more; the
which he loved passing well.
Pol.
Still on my daughter!
[Aside.
Ham.
Am not I i'th' right, old Jephtha?
Pol.
If you call me Jephtha, my Lord, I have a
daughter that I love passing well.
Ham.
Nay, that follows not.
Pol.
Nay, what follows then, my Lord?
Ham.
Why as by lot, God wot, ‘and then you know,
it came to pass, as most like it was;’ the first row of
the rubrick will shew you more; for look where my
abridgment comes.
Enter Players* note.
You are welcome, masters. O my old friend! why
thy face is valanced† note, since I saw thee last; com'st
thou to beard me, in Denmark? What, my young lady
and mistress! marry, your ladyship is grown nearer to
heaven than when I saw you last, by the altitude of a
chopin‡ note: I wish your voice, like a piece of uncurrent
-- 35 --
gold, be not cracked within the ring. Masters, you
are all welcome, we'll e'en to't like friendly falconers, fly
at any thing we see: we'll have a speech strait; come,
give us a taste of your quality; come, a passionate speech.
Play.
What speech, my good Lord?
Ham.
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
multitude. One speech in't I chiefly loved, 'twas
Æneas's tale to Dido; and thereabout of it especially,
where he speaks of Priam's slaughter. If it live in your
memory, begin at this line, let me see, let me see—
The rugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast—
Beast! no, that's not it, yet it begins with Pyrrhus.
The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms,
Black as his purpose, did the night resemble,
Old Grandsire Priam seeks.
Pol.
My lord, well spoken, with good accent, and
good discretion.
Ham.
So proceed you.
Play.* note
Anon he finds him,
Striking too short at Greeks. His antique sword,
Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls,
Repugnant to command; unequal match'd,
Pyrrhus at Priam drives, in rage strikes wide,
But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword,
The unnerv'd father falls.
But as we often see, against some storm,
A silence in the heav'ns, the rack stand still,
The bold wind speechless, and the orb below
As hush as death: anon the dreadful thunder
Doth rend the region: so, after Pyrrhus' pause,
A roused 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
-- 36 --
Now falls on Priam.
Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune!
Pol.
This is too long.
Ham.
It shall to the barber's, with your beard. Prithee,
say on; he's for a jig, or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps.
Say on, and come to Hecuba.
Play.
But who, alas, had seen the mobled queen—
Ham.
The mobled queen!
Pol.
That's good.
Play.
Run bare foot, up and down, threatening the flames;
A clout upon that head,
Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe,
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?
Pol.
Look whether he has not turned his colour, and
has tears in's eyes. Prithee no more.
Ham.
'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 abstract and brief chronicles of the time:
after your death, you were better to have a bad epitaph,
than their ill report, while you live.
Pol.
My lord, I will use them according to their desert.
Ham.
Much better; use every man, sir, according to
* notehis desert, and who shall escape whipping? Use them
after your own honour and dignity. The less they deserve,
the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in.
Pol.
Come, sirs.
Ham.
Follow him, friends; we'll have a play, to-morrow.
Dost thou hear me, old friend? My good
friends, I'll leave you till night: you're welcome to
Elsinoor.
Ros.
Farewel, my lord.
[Exit Ros. and Guild.
Ham.
Can you play the murder of Gonzago?
[To Player.
-- 37 --
Play.
Ay, my Lord.
Ham.
We'll have it, to-morrow night; you could for
need study a speech of some dozen lines, which I would
set down, and insert—could you not?
Play.
Ay, my Lord.
Ham.
Very well; follow that Lord, and look you
mock him not.
[Exeunt all but Hamlet.
O what a wretch 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 the visage warm'd,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in his 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 ground for passion,
That I have? he would drown the stage with tears,
Make mad the guilty, and appal the free,
Confound the ign'rant, and amaze indeed
The very faculties of eyes and ears:
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.
&blquo;* noteRemorseless, treacherous, letcherous, kindless villain!
&blquo;Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave,
&blquo;That I, the son of a dear father murder'd,
&blquo;Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
&blquo;Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words,
&blquo;And fall a cursing, like a very drab, a scullion; fie upon't! foh!
&blquo;About my brain! Hum!&brquo; I have heard,
That guilty creatures, sitting at a play,
Have by the very cunning of the scene,
-- 38 --
Been struck so to the soul, that presently
They have proclaim'd their malefactions:
For murder, tho' it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ* note. I'll have these players
Play something like the murder of my father,
Before my uncle. I'll observe his looks,
I'll tent him to the quick; if he look pale,
I know my course. The spirit that I have seen,
May be a devil, and the devil may have 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.† note
John Bell [1774], Bell's Edition of Shakespeare's Plays, As they are now performed at the Theatres Royal in London; Regulated from the Prompt Books of each House By Permission; with Notes Critical and Illustrative; By the Authors of the Dramatic Censor (Printed for John Bell... and C. Etherington [etc.], York) [word count] [S10401].
