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Charles Gildon [1709–1710], The works of Mr. William Shakespear; in six [seven] volumes. Adorn'd with Cuts. Revis'd and Corrected, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By N. Rowe ([Vol. 7] Printed for E. Curll... and E. Sanger [etc.], London) [word count] [S11401]. To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH.
Dramatis Personæ.
MACBETH.
Enter Malcolme, and Donalbaine.
Apparition of a bloody Child rises.
Enter Seyton.
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HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. A TRAGEDY.
Dramatis Personæ.
HAMLET, Prince of DENMARK.
Enter Ghost again.
Adieu.
Enter Roseneraus and Guildenstern.
Enter Hamlet.
Enter Roseneraus and Guildenstern.
Enter King.
He that thou knowest thine, Hamlet.
Hamlet.
He digs and Sings.
Enter Fortinbras and English Ambassador, with Drum, Colours, and Attendants.
Next section
Year
1709.Claudius, King of Denmark.
Fortinbras, Prince of Norway.
Hamlet, Son to the former, and Nephew to the present King.
Polonius, Lord Chamberlain.
Horatio, Friend to Hamlet.
Laertes, Son to Polonius.
Voltimand [Voltemand], Courtier.
Cornelius, Courtier.
Roseneraus [Rosencrantz], Courtier.
Guildenstern, Courtier.
Osrick [Osric], a Fop.
Marcellus, an Officer.
Bernardo, Soldier.
Francisco, Soldier.
Reynoldo [Reynaldo], Servant to Polonius.
Ghost of Hamlet's Father.
Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, and Mother to Hamlet.
Ophelia, Daughter to Polonius, belov'd by Hamlet.
Ladies attending on the Queen.
Players, Grave-makers, Sailors, Messengers, and other Attendants.
[Player 1], [Player], [Prologue], [Player King], [Player Queen], [Lucianus], [Captain], [Messenger], [Danes], [Servant], [Sailor], [Clown 1], [Clown 2], [Priest], [Lord]
SCENE ELSINOOR.
Who's there?
Nay, answer me: Stand and unfold your self.
Long live the King.
Bernardo?
He.
You come most carefully upon your hour.
'Tis now struck Twelve, get thee to Bed, Francisco.
For this relief, much thanks: 'tis bitter cold,
And I am sick at Heart.
Have you had quiet Guard?
Not a Mouse stirring.
Well, good Night. If you do meet Horatio and
Marcellus, the Rivals of my Watch, bid them make haste.
I think I hear them. Stand; who's there?
Friends to this Ground.
And Liege-men to the Dane.
Give you good Night.
O, farewel, honest Soldier, who hath reliev'd you?
Bernardo has my place: give you good Night.
[Exit Francisco.
Holla, Bernardo.
Say, what is Horatio there?
A piece of him.
Welcome, Horatio, welcome, good Marcellus.
What, has this thing appear'd again to Night?
I have seen nothing.
Horatio says, 'tis but our Phantasie,
And will not let belief take hold of him,
Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us,
Therefore I have intreated him along,
With us, to watch the minutes of this Night,
That if again this Apparition come,
He may approve our Eyes, and speak to it.
Tush, tush, 'twill not appear.
Sit down a while,
And let us once again assail your Ears,
That are so fortified against our story,
What we two Nights have seen.
Well, sit we down,
And let us hear Bernardo speak of this.
Last Night of all,
When yon same Star, that's Westward from the Pole,
Had made his course t'illume that part of Heav'n
Where now it burns, Marcellus and my self,
The Bell then beating one—
Peace, break thee off;
Enter the Ghost.
Look where it comes again.
In the same figure like the King that's dead.
Thou art a Scholar, speak to it, Horatio.
Looks it not like the King? Mark it, Horatio.
Most like: It harrows me with fear and wonder.
It would be spoke to.
Question it, Horatio.
What art thou that usurp'st this time of Night,
Together with that fair and warlike form,
In which, the Majesty of buried Denmark
Did sometimes march? by Heav'n, I charge thee, speak.
It is offended.
See! it stalks away.
Stay; speak; speak: I charge thee, speak.
'Tis gone, and will not answer.
How now, Horatio? you tremble and look pale:
Is not this something more than Phantasie?
What think you on't?
Before my God, I might not this believe,
Without the sensible and true avouch
Of mine own Eyes.
Is it not like the King?
As thou art to thy self,
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 Pole-axe on the Ice.
'Tis strange—
Thus twice before, and just at this same Hour,
With Martial stalk, hath he gone by our Watch.
In what particular thought to work, I know not:
But in the gross and scope of my opinion,
This boads some strange eruption to our State.
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?
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 on, 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 Landless Resolutes,
For Food and Dyet; to some enterprize
That hath a Stomach in't: which is no other,
And it doth well appear unto our State,
But to recover of us by strong Hand
And terms compulsative, those foresaid Lands
So by his Father lost: and this, I take it,
Is the main motive of our Preparations,
The source of this our Watch, and the chief head
Of this Post-haste, and Romage in the Land.
I think it be no other, but even 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.
A Mote it is to trouble the Mind's Eye.
In the most high and flourishing State of Rome,
A little e'er the mightiest Julius fell,
The Graves stood Tenantless, and the sheeted Dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman Streets,
Stars shon with Trains of Fire, Dews of Blood fell,
Disasters veil'd the Sun, and the moist Star,
Upon whose Influence Neptune's Empire stands,
Was sick almost to Doom's-day with Eclipse;
And even the like Precurse of fierce Events,
As Harbingers preceding still the Fates,
And Prologue to the Omen coming on,
Have Heav'n and Earth together demonstrated
Unto our Climatures and Country-men.
But soft, behold! Lo, where it comes again!
I'll cross it, though 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 fore-knowing may avoid, Oh speak!—
Or, if thou hast uphoorded in thy Life
Extorted Treasure in the womb of Earth,
[Cock Crows.
For which, they say, you Spirits oft walk in Death,
Speak of it. Stay, and speak—Stop it, Marcellus—
Shall I strike at it with my Partizan?
Do, if it will not stand.
'Tis here—
'Tis here—
'Tis gone.
[Exit Ghost.
We do it wrong, being so Majestical,
To offer it the shew of Violence;
For it is as the Air, invulnerable,
And our vain blows, malicious mockery.
It was about to speak, when the Cock crew.
And then it started like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful Summons. I have heard,
The Cock that is the Trumpet to the day,
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 hyes
To his Confine. And of the truth herein,
This present Object made probation.
It faded on the crowing of the Cock.
Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's Birth is celebrated,
The Bird of Dawning singeth all Night long:
And then, they say, no Spirit dares walk abroad,
The Nights are wholsome, then no Planets strike,
No Fairy takes, no Witch hath power to charm;
So hallow'd, and so gracious is the time.
So have I heard, and do in part believe it.
But look, the Morn in Russet-Mantle clad,
Walks o'er the Dew of yon high Eastern Hill,
Break we our Watch up, and by my advice
Let us impart what we have seen to Night
Unto young Hamlet. For upon my life,
This Spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him:
Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it,
As needful in our Loves, fitting our duty?
Let's do't, I pray, and I this Morning know
Where we shall find him most conveniently.
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 our selves.
Therefore our sometimes Sister, now our Queen,
Th' Imperial Jointress of 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 our self, and for this time of meeting:
Thus much the Business is. We have here writ
To Norway, Uncle of young Fortinbras,
Who impotent and bedrid, scarcely hears
Of this his Nephew's purpose, to suppress
His further Gate herein. In that the Levies,
The Lifts, and full Proportions are all made
Out of his Subjects; and we here dispatch
You, good Cornelius, and you Voltimand,
For bearing of this greeting to old Norway,
Giving to you no further personal Power
Of Treaty with the King, more than the scope
Of these dilated Articles allow.
Farewel, and let your haste commend your Duty.
In that, and all things, will we shew our Duty?
We doubt in nothing, heartily farewel.
[Exeunt Voltimand 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?
Dread my Lord,
Your leave and favour to return to France;
From whence, though 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 towards France,
And bow them to your gracious Leave and Pardon.
Have you your Father's leave? what says Polonius?
He hath, my Lord, by laboursome Petition,
Wrung from me my slow Leave; and at last
Upon his Will I seal'd my hard Consent;
I do beseech you give him leave to go.
Take thy fair Hour, Laertes, time be thine,
And thy best graces; spend it at thy Will.
But now, my Cousin Hamlet, and my Son—
A little more than kin, and less than kind.
How is it that the Clouds still hang on you?
Not so, my Lord, I am too much i'th' Sun.
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.
Ay, Madam, it is common.
If it be;
Why seems it so particular with thee?
Seems, Madam? Nay, it is; I know not Seems:
'Tis not alone my Inky Cloak, good Mother,
Nor customary Suits of solemn Black,
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, shews of Grief,
That can denote me truly. These indeed Seem,
For they are Actions that a Man might play;
But I have that within, which passeth show:
These, but the Trappings, and the Suits of woe.
'Tis sweet and commendable in your Nature, Hamlet,
To give these mourning Duties to your Father:
But you must know, your Father lost a Father,
That Father lost, lost his, and the Surviver 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 shews a Will most incorrect to Heav'n,
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 Heav'n,
A fault against the Dead, a fault to Nature,
To Reason most absurd, whose common Theam
Is death of Fathers, and who still hath cry'd,
From the first Coarse, 'till he that died to Day,
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 towards you. For your intent
In going back to School to Wittenberg,
It is most retrograde to our Desire:
And we beseech you, bend you to remain
Here in the cheer and comfort of our Eye,
Our chiefest Courtier, Cousin, and our Son.
Let not thy Mother lose her Prayers, Hamlet;
I prithee stay with us, go not to Wittenberg.
I shall in all my best obey you, Madam.
Why 'tis a loving, and a fair Reply,
Be as our self 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 to Day,
But the great Cannon to the Clouds shall tell,
And the Kings Rowse, the Heav'n shall bruit again,
Re-speaking earthly Thunder. Come away.
O that this too too solid Flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve it self into a Dew;
Or that the Everlasting had not fixt
His Cannon 'gainst self slaughter. O God! O God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seems 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, that was, to this,
Hyperion to a Satyr: So loving to my Mother,
That he permitted not the Winds of Heav'n
Visit her Face too roughly. Heav'n 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 e'er those Shooes were old,
With which she follow'd my poor Father's Body,
Like Niobe, all tears—Why she, even she,—
O Heav'n! 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!—
E'er yet the salt of most unrighteous Tears
Had left the flushing of her gauled Eyes,
She married. O most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous Sheets:
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But break, my Heart, for I must hold my Tongue.
Hail to your Lordship.
I am glad to see you well,
Horatio, or I do forget my self.
The same, my Lord, and your poor Servant ever.
Sir, my good Friend, I'll change that Name with you:
And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?
Marcellus!—
My good Lord—
I am very glad to see you; good even, Sir.
But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?
A truant Disposition, good my Lord.
I would not have your Enemy say so;
Nor shall you do mine Ear that Violence,
To make it truster of your own report
Against your self. I know you are no Truant;
But what is your Affair in Elsinoor?
We'll teach you to drink deep e'er you depart.
My Lord, I came to see your Father's Funeral.
I prithee do not mock me, Fellow Student;
I think it was to see my Mother's Wedding.
Indeed, my Lord, it follow'd hard upon.
Thrift, thrift, Horatio: The Funeral bak'd Meats
Did coldly furnish forth the Marriage Tables;
Would I had met my dearest Foe in Heav'n,
E'er I had ever seen that Day, Horatio.
My Father,—methinks I see my Father.
O where, my Lord?
In my Mind's Eye, Horatio.
I saw him once, he was a goodly King.
He was a Man, take him for all in all,
I should not look upon his like again.
My Lord, I think I saw him yesternight.
Saw! Who?—
My Lord, the King your Father.
The King my Father!
Season your Admiration for a while
With an attent Ear; 'till I may deliver
Upon the witness of these Gentlemen,
This marvel to you.
For Heav'n's love, let me hear.
Two Nights together had these Gentlemen,
Marcellus and Bernardo, on their Watch,
In the dead waste and middle of the Night,
Been thus encountered. A figure like your Father,
Arm'd at all points exactly, Cap a Pe,
Appears before them, and with solemn March
Goes slow and stately: By them thrice he walk'd,
By their opprest and fear-surprized Eyes,
Within his Truncheon's length; whilst they, be-still'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.
But where was this?
My Lord, upon the Platform where we watcht.
Did you not speak to it?
My Lord, I did;
But answer made it none; yet once methought
It lifted up its Head, and did address
It self 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 vanisht from our sight.
'Tis very strange.
As I do live, my honourable Lord, 'tis true;
And we did think it writ down in our Duty
To let you know of it.
Indeed, indeed, Sirs, but this troubles me.
Hold you the Watch to Night?
We do, my Lord.
Arm'd, say you?
Arm'd, my Lord.
From top to toe?
My Lord, from head to foot.
Then saw you not his Face?
O yes, my Lord, he wore his Beaver up.
What, look'd he frowningly?
A Countenance more in Sorrow than in Anger.
Pale, or red?
Nay, very pale.
And fixt his Eyes upon you?
Most constantly.
I would I had been there.
It would have much amaz'd you.
Very like, very like; staid it long?
While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.
Longer, longer.
Not when I saw't.
His Beard was grisly?
It was, I have seen it in his Life,
A Sable silver'd.
I'll watch to Night; perchance 'twill walk again.
I warrant you it will.
If it assume my noble Father's Person,
I'll speak to it, tho' Hell it self 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 shall hap to Night,
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.
Our duty to your Honour.
Your love, 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 Mens Eyes.
My Necessaries are imbark'd, farewel;
And Sister, as the Winds give benefit,
And Convoy is assistant; do not sleep,
But let me hear from you.
Do you doubt that?
For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favours,
Hold it a fashion and a toy in Blood,
A Violet in the youth of primy Nature,
Forward, not permanent, tho' sweet, not lasting
The suppliance of a minute; no more.
No more but so?
Think it no more:
For Nature crescent does not grow alone,
In Thews and Bulk; but as his Temple waxes,
The inward service of the Mind and Soul
Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now,
And now no foil nor cautel doth besmerch
The virtue of his Fear: But you must fear
His greatness weigh'd, his will is not his own:
For he himself is subject to his Birth;
He may not, as unvalued Persons do,
Carve for himself; for, on his choice depends
The sanctity and health of the 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 peculiar Sect and force
May give his saying deed; which is no further,
Than the main Voice of Denmark goes withal.
Then weigh that 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 unmastered importunity.
Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear Sister,
And keep within 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 it self scapes not calumnious strokes,
The Canker galls the infant of the Spring,
Too oft before the 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 it self rebels, though none else near.
I shall th' effect of this good Lesson keep,
As Watchmen to my Heart: But good my Brother,
Do not as some ungracious Pastors do,
Shew me the steep and thorny way to Heav'n;
Whilst like a puft and reckless Libertine,
Himself, the Primrose path of dalliance treads,
And reaks not his own read.
Oh, fear me not.
Enter Polonius.
I stay too long; but here my Father comes:
A double Blessing is a double Grace;
Occasion smiles upon a second leave.
Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard for shame,
The Wind sits in the shoulder of your Sail,
And you are staid for there. My Blessing with you;
And these few Precepts in thy Memory,
See thou Character. Give thy Thoughts no Tongue,
Nor any unproportion'd Thought his Act:
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar;
The Friends thou hast, and their adoption try'd,
Grapple them to thy Soul, with hoops of Steel:
But do not dull thy Palm, with Entertainment
Of each unhatch'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 exprest in fancy; rich, not gaudy:
For the Apparel oft proclaims the Man,
And they in France of the best Rank and Station,
Are most select and generous, chief in that.
Neither a borrower, nor a lender be;
For Loan oft loses both it self and Friend:
A 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.
Farewel; my blessing season this in thee.
Most humbly do I take my leave, my Lord.
The time invites you, go, your Servants tend.
Farewel, Ophelia, and remember well
What I have said to you.
'Tis in my Memory lockt,
And you your self shall keep the Key of it.
Farewel.
[Exit Laer.
What is't, Ophelia, he said to you?
So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.
Marry, well bethought;
'Tis told me he hath very oft of late
Given private time to you; and you your self
Have of your Audience been most free and bounteous.
If it be so, as so it is put on me,
And that in way of caution, I must tell you,
You do not understand your self so clearly,
As it behooves my Daughter, and your Honour.
What is between you, give me up the Truth?
He hath, my Lord, of late, made many tenders
Of his Affection to me.
Affection! puh! you speak like a green Girl,
Unsifted in such perilous Circumstance.
Do you believe his Tenders, as you call them?
I do not know, my Lord, what I should think.
Marry I'll teach you; think your self a Baby,
That you have ta'en his Tenders for true pay.
Which are not sterling. Tender your self more dearly;
Or not to crack the wind of the poor Phrase,
Roaming it thus, you'll tender me a Fool.
My Lord, he hath importun'd me with love,
In honourable fashion.
Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to.
And hath given Countenance to his Speech, my Lord,
With almost all the Vows of Heaven.
Ay, Springes to catch Woodcocks. I do know
When the Blood burns, how prodigal the Soul
Gives 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. For this time, Daughter,
Be somewhat 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 the Eye, which their Investments shew,
But meer Implorators of unholy Suits,
Breathing like sanctified and pious Bonds,
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 way.
I shall obey my Lord.
The Air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.
It is a nipping and an eager Air.
What hour now?
I think it lacks of twelve.
No, it has struck.
I heard it not: Then it draws near the Season,
Wherein the Spirit held his wont to walk.
[Noise of warlike Musick within.
What does this mean, my Lord?
The King doth wake to Night, and takes his rowse,
Keeps wassel, 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.
Is it a Custom?
Ay marry is't:
But to my Mind, though I am native here,
And to the manner born, it is a Custom
More honour'd in the breach, than the observance.
Look, my Lord, it comes.
Angels and Ministers of Grace defend us!
Be thou a Spirit of Health, or Goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee Airs from Heaven, or blasts from Hell,
Be thy Events 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! oh! answer me,
Let me not burst in Ignorance; but tell
Why thy Canoniz'd Bones hearsed in Death,
Have burst their Cearments? why the Sepulcher
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 Coarse again in compleat Steel,
Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the Moon,
Making Night hideous? and we Fools of Nature,
So horridly to shake our Disposition,
With Thoughts beyond the reaches of our Souls?
Say, why is this? wherefore? what should we do?
It beckons you to go away with it,
As if it some impartment did desire,
To you alone.
Look with what courteous Action
It wafts you to a more removed Ground:
But do not go with it.
No, by no means.
It will not speak; then will I follow it.
Do not, my Lord.
Why, what should be the fear?
I do not set my Life at a Pins fee;
And for my Soul, what can it do to that?
Being a thing immortal as it self.
It waves me forth again.—I'll follow it—
What if it tempt you toward the Flood, my Lord?
Or to the dreadful Summit of the Cliff,
That beetles o'er his base into the Sea,
And there assume some other horrible Form,
Which might deprive your Sovereignty of Reason,
And draw you into madness? think of it.
It wafts me still: Go on, I'll follow thee—
You shall not go, my Lord.
Hold off your Hand.
Be rul'd, you shall not go.
My Fate cries out,
And makes each petty Artery in this Body,
As hardy as the Nemean Lion's Nerve:
Still am I call'd? Unhand me, Gentlemen—
[Breaking from them.
By Heav'n I'll make a Ghost of him that letts me—
I say away—go on—I'll follow thee—
He waxes desperate with Imagination.
Let's follow; 'tis not fit thus to obey him.
Have after; to what issue will this come?
Something is rotten in the State of Denmark.
Heav'n will direct it.
Nay, let's follow him.
Where wilt thou lead me? speak; I'll go no further.
Mark me.
I will.
My hour is almost come,
When I to sulphurous and tormenting Flames
Must render up my self.
Alas poor Ghost.
Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing
To what I shall unfold.
Speak, I am bound to hear.
So art thou to Revenge, when thou shalt hear.
What?
I am thy Father's Spirit;
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the Night,
And for the Day 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 knotty and combined Locks to part,
And each particular Hair to stand an end
Like Quills upon the fretful Porcupine:
But this eternal Blazon must not be
To ears of Flesh and Blood; list Hamlet! oh list!
If thou dist ever thy dear Father love—
Oh Heaven!
Revenge his foul and most unnatural Murther.
Murther?
Murther most foul, as in the best it is;
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
Haste me to know it, that I with Wings as swift
As Meditation, or the Thoughts of Love
May sweep to my Revenge.
I find thee apt;
And duller shouldst thou be than the fat Weed
That rots it self in ease on Lethe's Wharf,
Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear:
It's 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.
O my Prophetick Soul; mine Uncle?
Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate Beast,
With Witchcraft of his Wits, and traiterous Gifts,
Oh wicked Wit, and Gifts, that have the Power
So to seduce! won to his shameful Lust
The Will of my most seeming virtuous Queen.
Oh 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 moved,
Though Lewdness court it in a Shape of Heaven;
So lust, though to a radiant Angel link'd,
Will sate it self in a Celestial Bed, and prey on Garbage.
But soft, methinks I scent the Morning's Air—
Brief let me be; sleeping within mine Orchard,
My Custom always in the Afternoon,
Upon my secure Hour thy Uncle stole
With Juice of cursed Hebenon in a Viol,
And in the Porches of mine Ears did pour
The leprous Distilment; whose effect
Holds such an enmity with blood of Man,
That swift as Quick-silver it courses through
The natural Gates and Allies of the Body;
And with a sudden vigour it doth posset
And curd, like Eagre droppings into Milk,
The thin and wholsome blood: So did it mine
And a most instant Tetter bak'd about,
Most Lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust,
All my smooth Body.
Thus was I, sleeping, by a Brother's Hand,
Of Life, of Crown, and Queen at once dispatcht;
Cut off even in the Blossoms of my Sin,
Unhouzzled, disappointed, unnaneld,
No reckoning made, but sent to my Account
With all my imperfections on my Head.
Oh horrible! Oh 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 pursuest this Act,
Taint not thy Mind, nor let thy Soul contrive
Against thy Mother ought; leave her to Heav'n,
And to those Thorns that in her Bosom lodge,
To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once,
The Glow-worm shews the Matin to be near,
And 'gins to pale his uneffectual Fire.
Adieu, adieu, Hamlet! remember me.
Oh all you Host of Heaven! Oh Earth! what else?
And shall I couple Hell? Oh 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,
Unmixt with baser Matter. Yes, yes, by Heav'n:
Oh most pernicious Woman!
Oh Villain, Villain, smiling damned Villain!
My Tables, my Tables—meet it is I set it down,
That one may smile, and smile, and be a Villain;
At least I'm sure it may be so in Denmark.
[Writing.
So Uncle, there you are; now to my word;
It is; adieu, adieu, remember me: I have sworn't.
My Lord, my Lord.
Lord Hamlet.
Heav'n secure him.
So be it.
Illo, ho, ho, my Lord.
Hillo, ho, ho, boy; come bird, come.
How is't, my Noble Lord?
What News, my Lord?
Oh wonderful!
Good my Lord, tell it.
No, you'll reveal it.
Not I, my Lord, by Heav'n.
Nor I, my Lord.
How say you then, would Heart of Man once think it?
But you'll be secret?—
Ay, by Heav'n, my Lord.
There's ne'er a Villain dwelling in all Denmark,
But he's an arrant Knave.
There needs no Ghost, my Lord, come from the Grave
To tell us this.
Why, right, you are 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 you,
For every Man has Business and Desire,
Such as it is; and for mine own poor part,
Look you, I'll go pray.
These are but wild and hurling Words, my Lord,
I'm sorry they offended you, heartily;
Yes Faith, heartily.
There's no Offence, my Lord.
Yes, by St. Patrick, but there is my Lord,
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,
Give me one poor request.
What is't, my Lord? we will.
Never make known what you have seen to Night.
My Lord, we will not.
Nay, but swear't.
In faith, my Lord, not I.
Nor I, my Lord, in faith.
Upon my Sword.
We have sworn, my Lord, already.
Indeed, upon my Sword, indeed.
Swear.
Propose my Oath, my Lord.
Never to speak of this that you have seen,
Swear by my Sword.
Swear.
Hic & ubique? Then we'll shift for ground,
Come hither Gentlemen.
And lay your Hands again upon my Sword.
Never to speak of this that you have heard,
Swear by my Sword.
Swear.
Well said, old Mole, can'st work i'th' Ground so fast?
A worthy Pioneer, once more remove, good Friend.
Oh Day and Night! but this is wondrous strange.
And therefore as a Stranger bid it welcome.
There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in our Philosophy. But come,
Here as before, never so help you Mercy,
How strange or odd so e'er I bear my self,
As I perchance hereafter shall think meet
To put an Antick disposition on,
That you at such time seeing me, never shall
With Arms encumbred thus, or thus, 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 there might—
Or such ambiguous giving out to note,
That you know ought of me; this not to do,
So Grace and Mercy at your most need help you,
Swear.
Swear.
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; Oh cursed Spight,
That ever I was born to set it right.
Nay, come, let's go together.
Give him his Mony, and those Notes, Reynoldo.
I will, my Lord.
You shall do marvellous wisely, good Reynoldo.
Before you visit him, make you Inquiry.
Of his Behaviour.
My Lord, I did intend it.
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, what Expence, and finding
By this encompassment and drift of Question,
That they do know my Son; come you more near,
Then 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, Reynoldo?
Ay, very well, my Lord.
And in part him—but you may say—not well;
But if't be he I mean, he's very wild;
Addicted so and so—and there put on him
What Forgeries you please; marry, none so rank,
As may dishonour him; take heed of that;
But, Sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips,
As are Companions noted and most known
To Youth and Liberty.
As Gaming, my Lord—
Ay, or Drinking, Fencing, Swearing,
Quarrelling, Drabbing—You may go so far.
My Lord, that would dishonour him.
Faith no, as you may season it in the Charge;
You must not put another scandal on him,
That he is open to Incontinency,
That's not my meaning; but breath his Faults so quaintly,
That they may seem the Taints of Liberty;
The Flash and out-break of a fiery Mind,
A savageness in unreclaimed Blood
Of general Assault.
But, my good Lord.
Wherefore should you do this?
Ay, my Lord, I would know that.
Marry, Sir, here's my drift,
And I believe it is a fetch of 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 breath of, Guilty, be assur'd
He closes with you in this Consequence;
Good Sir, or so, or Friend, or Gentleman,
According to the Phrase and the Addition,
Of Man and Country.
Very good, my Lord.
And then, Sir, do's he this?
He do's—what was I about to say?
I was about to say nothing; where did I leave?—
At closes in the Consequence:
At Friend, or so, and Gentleman.
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 Rowse,
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 Falshood, takes this Carp of Truth;
And thus do we of Wisdom and of Reach,
With Windlaces, and with assays of Byas,
By Indirections find Directions out:
So by my former Lecture and Advice
Shall you my Son; you have me, have you not?
My Lord, I have.
God b'w' you; fare you well.
Good my Lord—
Observe his Inclination in your self.
I shall, my Lord.
And let him ply his Musick.
Well, my Lord.
Farewel.
How now, Ophelia, what's the matter?
Alas, my Lord, I have been so affrighted.
With what, in the Name of Heav'n?
My Lord, as I was sowing in my Chamber,
Lord Hamlet with his Doublet all unbrac'd,
No Hat upon his Head, his Stockings foul'd,
Ungarter'd, and down-gyved to his Ancle,
Pale as his Shirt, his Knees knocking each other,
And with a look so piteous in Purport,
As if he had been losed out of Hell,
To speak of Horrors; he comes before me.
Mad for thy Love?
My Lord, I do not know: but truly I do fear it.
What said he?
He took me by the wrist.
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 staid he so;
At last, a little shaking of my Arm,
And thrice his Head thus waving up and down,
He rais'd a Sigh, so hideous and profound,
That it did seem to shatter all his Bulk,
And end his Being. That done, he lets me go,
And with his Head over his Shoulders turn'd,
He seem'd to find his way without his Eyes,
For out adoors he went without their help,
And to the last, bended their light on me.
Come, go with me, I will go seek the King,
This is the very Extasie of Love,
Whose violent Property foredoes it self,
And leads the Will to desperate Undertakings,
As oft as any Passion under Heaven,
That do's afflict our Natures. I am sorry;
What, have you given him any hard Words of late?
No, my good Lord; but as you did command
I did repel his Letters, and deny'd
His Access to me.
That hath made him mad.
I am sorry that with better Speed and Judgment
I had not quoted him. I fear'd he did but trifle,
And meant to wrack thee; but beshrew my Jealousie;
It seems it is as proper to our Age,
To cast beyond our selves 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.
Welcome dear Roseneraus 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 not 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 deem of. I intreat 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 Occasions you may glean,
If ought, to us unknown, afflicts him thus,
That open'd lies within our remedy.
Good Gentlemen he hath much talk'd of you,
And sure I am, two Men there are not living,
To whom he more adheres. If it will please you
To shew us so much gentry and good will,
As to expend your time with us a while,
For the supply and profit of our hope,
Your Visitation shall receive such Thanks,
As fits a King's remembrance.
Both your Majesties
Might by the Sovereign Power you have of us,
Put your dread Pleasures, more into Command
Than to Entreaty.
But we both obey,
And here give up our selves, in the full bent,
To lay our Service freely at your Feet,
To be commanded.
Thanks, Roseneraus, and gentle Guildenstern,
Thanks, Guildenstern, and gentle Roseneraus;
And I beseech you instantly to visit
My too much changed Son. Go some of ye,
And bring the Gentlemen where Hamlet is.
Heav'ns make our Presence and our Practices
Pleasant and helpful to him.
Amen.
The Ambassadors from Norway, my good Lord,
Are joyfully return'd.
Thou still hast been the Father of good News.
Have I, my Lord? 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 I have us'd to do, that I have found
The very cause of Hamlet's Lunacy.
O speak of that, that I do long to hear.
Give first admittance to th' Ambassadors,
My News shall be the News to that great Feast.
Thy self do Grace to them, and bring them in.
[Ex. Pol.
He tells me, my sweet Queen, that he hath found
The head and source of all your Son's Distemper.
I doubt it is no other, but the main,
His Father's Death, and our o'er-hasty Marriage.
Well, we shall sift him. Welcome, good Friends!
Say Voltimand, what from our Brother Norway?
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 Polak:
But better look'd into, he truly found
It was against your Highness. Whereat grieved,
That so his Sickness, Age, and Impotence
Was falsely born 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 imploy those Soldiers
So levied as before, against the Polak:
With an intreaty herein further shewn,
That it might please you to give quiet pass
Through your Dominions for his Enterprize.
On such regards of Safety and Allowance,
As therein are set down.
It likes us well:
And at our more consider'd time we'll read,
Answer, and think upon this Business.
Mean time we thank you, for your well-look'd labour.
Go to your rest, at Night we'll feast together.
Most welcome home.
This Business is very well ended.
My Liege and Madam, to expostulate
What Majesty should be, what Duty is,
Why Day is Day, Night, Night, and Time is Time,
Were nothing but to waste Night, Day, and Time.
Therefore, since Brevity is the Soul of Wit,
And Tediousness the Limbs and outward Flourishes,
I will be brief; your noble Son is mad.
Mad call I it; for to define true Madness,
What is't, but to be nothing else but mad.
But let that go.
More Matter, with less Art.
Madam, I swear I use no Art at all;
That he is mad 'tis true; 'tis true, 'tis pity,
And pity, it is 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—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.
He opens a Letter, and reads.
Came this from Hamlet to her?
Good Madam stay a while, I will be faithful.
Doubt thou, the Stars are Fire,
[Reading.
Doubt, that the Sun doth move;
Doubt Truth to be a Liar,
But never Doubt, I love.
Thine evermore, most dear Lady, whilst this
Machine is to him, Hamlet.
This in Obedience hath my Daughter shew'd me:
And more above, hath his sollicitings,
As they fell out by time, by means, and place,
All given to mine Ear.
But how hath she receiv'd his Love?
What do you think of me?
As of a Man, faithful and honourable.
I would fain prove so. But what might you think?
When I had seen his hot Love on the Wing,
As I perceived it, I must tell you that
Before my Daughter told me, what might you
Or my dear Majesty your Queen here, think,
If I had 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 Sphere,
This must not be; And then, I Precepts gave her,
That she should lock her self 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.
Do you think 'tis this?
It may be very likely.
Hath there been such a time, I'd fain know that,
That I have positively said, 'tis so,
When it prov'd otherwise?
Not that I know.
Take this from this, if this be otherwise,
If Circumstances lead me, I will find
Where Truth is hid, though it were hid indeed
Within the Center.
How may we try it further?
You know sometimes
He walks four hours together, here
In the Lobby.
So he has indeed.
At such a time I'll loose my Daughter to him,
Be you and I behind an Arras then,
Mark the Encounter: If he love her not,
And be not from his Reason faln thereon,
Let me be no Assistant for a State,
And keep a Farm and Carters.
We will try it.
But look where, sadly, the poor Wretch comes Reading.
Away, I do beseech you, both away.
I'll board him presently.
[Exe. King and Queen.
Oh give me leave. How does my good Lord Hamlet?
Well, God-a-mercy.
Do you know me, my Lord?
Excellent, excellent well; y'are a Fishmonger?
Not I, my Lord.
Then I would you were so honest a Man.
Honest, my Lord?
Ay, Sir; to be honest as this World goes, is to be
One pick'd out of two thousand.
That's very true, my Lord.
For if the Sun breed Maggots in a dead Dog,
Being a good kissing Carrion—
Have you a Daughter?
I have, my Lord.
Though this be madness, yet there's Method in't:
Will you walk out of the Air, my Lord?
Into my Grave?
Indeed that is out o'th' Air:
How pregnant (sometimes) his replies are?
A happiness that often Madness hits on,
Which Reason and Sanity could not
So prosperously be deliver'd 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.
My Lord, I have News to tell you.
My Lord, I have News to tell you,
When Roscius was an Actor in Rome—
The Actors are come hither, my Lord.
Buzze, buzze.
Upon mine Honour—
Then came each Actor on his Ass—
What a Treasure had he, my Lord?
Why one fair Daughter, and no more,
The which he loved passing well.
Still on my Daughter.
Am I not i'th' right, old Jephta?
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 his dread and black Complexion smear'd
With Heraldry more dismal; Head to Foot
Now is he total Geules; horridly Trickt
With Blood of Fathers, Mothers, Daughters, Sons,
Bak'd and impasted, with the parching Streets,
That lend a tyrannous, and damned Light
To the vile Murthers. Roasted in a Wrath and Fire,
And thus o'ersized with coagulate Gore,
With Eyes like Carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus
Old Grandsire Priam seeks.
Anon he finds him,
Striking too short at Greeks. His antick Sword,
Rebellious to his Arm, lyes where it falls
Repugnant to command; unequal match,
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 his 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 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 Heav'ns, 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 pawse,
A rowsed Vengeance sets him new a work,
And never did the Cyclops Hammers fall
On Mars his Armours, 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 Heav'n,
As low as to the Fiends.
This is too long.
But who, O who, had seen the Mobled Queen?
The Mobled Queen?
That's good; Mobled Queen, is good.
Run bare-foot up and down, threatning the Flame
With Bisson Rheum; a Clout about that Head,
Where late the Diadem stood, and for a Robe
About her lank and all o'er-teamed Loyns,
A Blanket in th'alarum 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 all)
Would have made Milch the burning Eyes of Heav'n,
And Passion in the Gods.
Look where he has not turn'd his Colour, and has
Tears in's Eyes. Pray you no more,
'Tis well, I'll have thee speak out the rest soon.
Good my Lord, will you see the Players well bestow'd.
Good my Lord,
Ay so, good b'w'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 whole Conceit,
That from her working, all his Visage warm'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 appall the Free,
Confound the Ignorant, and amaze indeed,
The very faculty of Eyes and Ears. Yet I,
A dull and muddy metled Rascal, peak
Like John-a-deames, 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 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?
Ha? Why should I take it? for it cannot be,
But I am Pigeon Liver'd, and lack Gall
To make Oppression bitter, or e'er 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? I sure, this is most brave,
That I, the Son of the dear 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 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 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
More relative than this: The Play's the thing,
Wherein I'll catch the Conscience of the King.
And can you by no drift of Circumstance
Get from him why he puts on this Confusion,
Grating so harshly all his Days of quiet,
With turbulent and dangerous Lunacy?
He does confess he feels himself distracted,
But from what cause he will by no means speak.
Nor do we find him forward to be sounded,
But with a crafty Madness keeps aloof:
When we would bring him on to some Confession
Of his true State.
Did he receive you well?
Most like a Gentleman.
But with much forcing of his disposition.
Niggard of Question, but of our Demands
Most free in his reply.
Did you assay him to any pastime?
Madam, it so fell out, that certain Players
We o'er-took 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.
'Tis most true:
And he beseech'd me to intreat your Majesties
To hear and see the Matter.
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.
We shall, my Lord.
Sweet Gertrude, leave us too,
For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither,
That he, as 'twere by accident, may there
Affront Ophelia. Her Father, and my self, lawful espials.
Will so bestow our selves, that seeing unseen
We may of their Encounter frankly judge,
And gather by him, as he is behaved,
If't be th' affliction of his Love, or no,
That thus he suffers for.
I shall obey you:
And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish
That your good Beauties be the happy cause
Of Hamlet's wildness. So shall I hope your Virtues
Will bring him to his wonted way again,
To both your Honours.
Madam, I wish it may.
Ophelia, walk you here. Gracious, so please ye,
We will bestow our selves: Read on this Book,
That shew 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 suger o'er
The Devil himself.
Oh 'tis too true;
How smart a lash that Speech doth give my Conscience?
The Harlot's Cheek beautied with plastring Art
Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it,
Than is my Deed to my most painted word.
Oh heavy burthen!
I hear him coming, let's withdraw, my Lord.
To be, or not to be, that is the Question:
Whether, 'tis nobler in the Mind, to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outragious Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of Troubles,
And by opposing end them. To dye, 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 Oppressors wrong, the poor Man's Contumely,
The pangs of despis'd Love, the Laws 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 Fardles bear
To grunt and sweat under a weary Life,
But that the dread of something after Death,
The undiscover'd Country, from whose Born
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 Enterprizes of great Pith and Moment,
With this regard their Currents turn away,
And lose the name of Action. Soft you now,
[Seeing Oph.
The fair Ophelia? Nymph, in thy Oraisons
Be all my Sins remembred.
Good my Lord,
How does your Honour for this many a Day?
I humbly thank you; well, well, well—
My Lord, I have remembrances of yours,
That I have longed long to re-deliver.
I pray you now receive them.
No, no, I never gave you ought.
My honour'd Lord, I know right well you did,
And with them Words of so sweet Breath compos'd,
As made the things more Rich: That perfume lost,
Take these again; for to the noble Mind
Rich Gifts wax poor, when Givers prove unkind.
There, my Lord.
Ha, ha! are you honest?
My Lord—
Are you fair?
What means your Lordship?
O what a noble Mind is here o'er-thrown!
The Courtiers, Soldiers, Scholars! 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.
I am of Ladies most deject and wretched,
That suck'd the Hony of his Musick 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 Extasie. Oh woe is me!
T' have seen what I have seen; see what I see.
Love! his Affections do not that way tend,
Nor what he spake, tho' 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 how 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?
It shall do well. But yet do I believe
The Origin and Commencement of this 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 intreat him
To shew his Griefs; 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.
It shall be so:
Madness in great Ones must not unwatch'd go.
How now, my Lord?
Will the King hear this piece of Work?
And the Queen too, and that presently.
Bid the Players make haste.
[Exit Polonius.
Will you two help to hasten them?
We will, my Lord.
What ho, Horatio?
Here, sweet Lord, at your Service.
Horatio, thou art e'en as just a Man
As e'er my Conversation coap'd withal.
O my dear Lord—
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 cloath 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 feigning. Dost thou hear?
Since my dear Soul was Mistress of her Choice,
And could of Men distinguish, her Election
Hath seal'd thee for her self. For thou hast been
As one in suffering all, that suffers nothing.
A Man that Fortune's buffets and rewards
Hath ta'en with equal Thanks. And blest are those,
Whos 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 to Night before the King,
One Scene of it comes near the Circumstance
Which I have told thee, of my Father's Death.
I prethee, when thou seest that Act a-foot,
Even with the very Comment of thy Soul
Observe mine Uncle: If his occulted guilt
Do not it self unkennel in one Speech,
It is a damned Ghost that we have seen:
And my Imaginations are as foul
As Vulcan's Styth. Give him heedful note,
For I mine Eyes will rivet to his Face,
And after we will both our Judgments join,
To censure of his seeming.
Well, my Lord.
If he steal ought the whilst this Play is playing,
And scape detecting, I will pay the Thest.
They are coming to the Play; I must be idle.
Get you a Place.
How fares my Cousin Hamlet?
And what did you enact?
I did enact Julius Cæsar, I was kill'd i'th' Capitol:
Brutus kill'd me.
You are naught, you are naught, I'll mark the Play.
For us, and for our Tragedy,
Here stooping to your Clemency;
We beg your hearing patiently.
Is this a Prologue, or the Posie of a Ring?
'Tis brief, my Lord.
As Woman's love.
Full thirty times hath Phœbus Car gon round
Neptune's salt Wash, and Tellus Orbed Ground:
And thirty dozen Moons with borrowed sheen,
About the World have time, twelve thirties been,
Since Love our Hearts, and Hymen did our Hands
Unite commutual, in most sacred Bands.
So many Journeys may the Sun and Moon
Make us again count o'er, e'er love be done.
But woe is me, you are so sick of late,
So far from Cheer, and from your former State,
That I disturst you; yet though I distrust,
Discomfort you, my Lord, it nothing must.
For Womens Fear and Love, hold quantity,
In neither ought, or in extremity;
Now what my Love is, proof hath made you know,
And as my Love is fix'd, my Fear is so.
Faith I must leave thee, Love, and shortly too;
My operant Powers my 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—
Oh 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.
Wormwood, Wormwood.
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.
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 our selves, what to our selves is Debt:
What to our selves in Passion we propose,
The Passion ending, doth the purpose lose
The Violence of either Grief or Joy,
Their own enactors with themselves destroy:
Where Joy most revels, Grief doth most lament;
Gref 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.
Nor Earth to give me Food, nor Heav'n Light,
Sport and repose lock from me Day and Night;
Each opposite that blanks the Face of Joy,
Meet what I would have well, and it destroy,
But here, and hence, pursue me lasting Strife,
If once a Widow, ever I be Wife.
If she should break it now.
'Tis deeply sworn; sweet, leave me here a while,
My Spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile
The tedious Day with sleep.
Sleep rock thy Brain,
[Sleeps.
And never come mischance between us twain.
Madam, how like you the Play?
The Lady protests too much, methinks.
Oh but she'll keep her word.
This is one Lucianus, Nephew to the King.
You are a good Chorus, my Lord.
I could interpret between you and your Love;
If I could see the Puppets dallying.
You are keen, my Lord, you are keen.
Still worse and worse.
So you mistake Husbands.
Begin Murther. Pox, leave thy damnable Faces, and begin.
Come, the croaking Raven doth bellow for Revenge.
Thoughts black, Hands apt, Drugs fit, and Time agreeing;
Confederate Season, else no Creature seeing:
Thou Mixture rank, of Midnight-Weeds collected,
With Hecate's Bane, thrice blasted, thrice infected,
The natural Magick, and dire property,
On wholsome Life, usurp immediately.
The King rises.
What, frighted with false Fire?
How fares my Lord?
Give o'er the Play.
Give me some Light. Away.
Lights, Lights, Lights.
Why let the strucken Deer go weep,
The Heart ungalled play:
For some must watch, whilst some must sleep?
So runs the World away.
Half a Share.
A whole one I.
For thou dost know, oh Damon dear,
This Realm dismantled was
Of Jove himself, and now reigns here.
A very very Pajock.
You might have Rim'd.
Oh, ha! come some Musick. Come the Recorders,
For if the King like not the Comedy;
Why then belike he likes it not perdy.
Come, some Musick.
We shall obey, were she ten times our Mother.
Have you any further Trade with us?
My Lord, you once did love me.
So I do still, by these pickers and stealers.
Look you, these are the stops.
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.
I will say so.
By and by is easily said. Leave me, friends:
[Exe.
'Tis now the very witching time of Night,
When Church-yards yawn, and Hell it self breaths 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—
Oh 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.
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 dangerous, as doth hourly grow
Out of his Lunacies.
We will our selves provide;
Most holy and religious Fear it is,
To keep those many Bodies safe, that live
And seed upon your Majesty.
The single and peculiar Life is bound
With all the Strength and Armour of the Mind,
To keep it self from noyance; but much more,
That Spirit, upon whose Spirit depends and rests
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
Fixt on the Summit of the highest Mount,
To whose huge Spoaks, ten thousand lesser things
Are mortiz'd and adjoin'd; which when it falls,
Each small annexment, petty consequence
Attends the boistrous Ruin. Never alone
Did the King sigh, but with a general groan.
Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy Voyage;
For we will Fetters put upon this Fear,
Which now goes too free-footed.
We will haste us.
My Lord, he's going to his Mother's Closet;
Behind the Arras I'll convey my self
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'er-hear
The Speech of Vantage. Fare you well, my Liege,
I'll call upon you e'er you go to bed,
And tell you what I know.
Thanks, dear my Lord.
Oh my Offence is rank, it smells to Heav'n,
It hath the primal eldest curse upon't;
A Brother's Murther. Pray I cannot,
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 pawse where I shall first begin,
And both neglect; what if this cursed Hand
Were thicker than it self with Brother's Blood,
Is there not Rain enough in the sweet Heav'ns
To wash it white as Snow? whereto serves Mercy?
But to confront the visage of Offence?
And what's in Prayer, but this two-fold Force,
To be fore-stalled e'er we come to fall,
Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up,
My Fault is past. But oh, what Form of Prayer
Can serve my turn? Forgive me my soul Murther,
That cannot be, since I am still possest
Of those Effects for which I did the Murther,
My Crown, mine own Ambition, and my Queen.
May one be pardon'd, and retain th'offence?
In the corrupted Currents of this World,
Offences gilded Hand may shove by Justice,
And oft 'tis seen, the wicked prize it self
Buys out the Law; but 'tis not so above,
There is no shuffling, there the Action lyes
In his true Nature, and we our selves compell'd
Even to the Teeth and Fore-head 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?
Oh wretched State! oh Bosom, black as Death!
Oh limed Soul, that strugling to be free,
Art more ingag'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.
Now might I do it pat, now he is praying,
And now I'll do't—and so he goes to Heav'n,
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 Heav'n—O this is Hire and Sallery, not Revenge.
He took my Father grossly, full of bread,
With all his Crimes broad blown, as fresh as May,
And how his Audit stands, who knows, save Heav'n:
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 time
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 Heav'n,
And that his Soul may be as damn'd and black
As Hell, whereto it goes. My Mother stays,
This Physick but prolongs thy sickly days.
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below,
Words, without thoughts, never to Heav'n go.
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.
Mother, Mother, Mother.
I'll warrant you, fear me not.
Withdraw, I hear him coming.
Now, Mother, what's the Matter?
Hamlet, thou hast thy Father much offended.
Mother, you have my Father much offended.
Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.
Go, go, you question with an idle tongue.
Why how now, Hamlet?
What's the matter now?
Have you forgot me?
No, by the Rood, not so;
You are the Queen, your Husband's Brother's Wife,
But would you were not so. You are my Mother.
You go not 'till I set you up a Glass,
Where you may see the inmost part of you?
What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murther me?
Help, help, ho.
What ho, help, help, help.
How now, a Rat? dead for a Ducate, dead.
Oh I am slain.
Oh me, what hast thou done?
Nay I know not, is it the King?
Oh, what a rash and bloody deed is this!
A bloody deed, almost as bad, good Mother,
As kill a King, and marry with his Brother.
As kill'd a King?
Ay Lady, 'twas my word.
Thou wretched, rash, intruding Fool, farewel,
I took thee for thy Betters, take thy Fortune,
Thou find'st to be too busie, 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.
What have I done, that thou dar'st wag thy tongue
In noise so rude against me?
Such an Act,
That blurs the Grace and blush of Modesty,
Calls Virtue Hypocrite, takes off the Rose
From the fair Fore-head of an innocent love,
And makes 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. Heav'n's Face doth glow,
Yea, this solidity and compound mass,
With tristful visage as against the doom,
Is thought-sick at the act.
Ay me, what act,
That roars so loud, and thunders in the Index?
Look here upon this Picture, and on this,
The counterfeit presentment of two Brothers:
See what a Grace was seated on his Brow,
Hyperion's Curles, the front of Jove himself,
An Eye like Mars, to threaten or command,
A Station like the Herald Mercury
Now lighted on a Heav'n 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 Moore? 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? What Devil was't,
That thus hath cozen'd you at Hoodman-blind?
O Shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious Hell,
If thou canst mutiny 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 Ardure gives the charge,
Since Frost it self as actively doth burn,
As Reason panders Will.
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.
Nay, but to live
In the rank sweat of an incestuous Bed,
Stew'd in Corruption; honying and making love
Over the nasty Sty.
Oh speak to me, no more,
These words like Daggers enter in mine Ears.
No more, sweet Hamlet.
A Murderer, and a Villain!
A Slave, that is not twentieth part, the tythe
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.
No more.
A King of shreds and patches—
Save me! and hover o'er me with your Wings
[Starting up.
You Heavenly Guards! What would you, gracious figure?
Alas he's mad.
Do you not come your tardy Son to chide,
That laps'd in Time and Passion, lets go by
Th' importing acting of your dread command? Oh say.
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.
How is it with you, Lady?
Alas, how is't with you?
That thus you bend your Eye on vacancy,
And with the Corporal Air do hold discourse.
Forth at your Eyes, your Spirits wildly peep,
And as the sleeping Soldiers in th' 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?
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 pitious action you convert
My stern effects; then what I have to do,
Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood.
To whom do you speak this?
Do you see nothing there?
Nothing at all, yet all that is I see.
Nor did you nothing hear?
No, nothing but our selves.
Why look you there! look how it steals away!
My Father in his habit, as he lived.
Look where he goes even now out at the Portal.
This is the very Coinage of your brain,
This bodiless Creation ecstasie is very cunning in.
Ecstasie?
My Pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,
And makes as healthful Musick. It is not madness
That I have uttered; bring me to the Test
And I the matter will re-word; which madness
Would gamboll from. Mother, for love of Grace,
Lay not a 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 running all within,
Infects unseen. Confess your self to Heav'n,
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 pursie times,
Virtue it self, of Vice must pardon beg,
Yea, curb, and wooe, for leave to do him good.
Oh, Hamlet! thou hast cleft my Heart in twain.
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 Habit's Devil, 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 to Night,
And that shall lend a kind of easiness
To the next Abstinence, the next more easie;
For use can almost change the stamp of Nature
And master the Devil, or throw him out
With wondrous Potency. Once more, good Night;
And when you are desirous to be blest,
I'll blessing beg of you. For this same Lord,
[Pointing to Pol.
I do repent: but Heav'n 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.
What shall I do?
Not this by no means that I bid you do,
Let the blunt 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 padling 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 Gibbe,
Such dear concernings hide? Who would do so?
No, in despight of Sense and Secrecy,
Unpeg the Basket on the Houses top,
Let the Birds fly, and like the famous Ape,
To try conclusions, in the Basket creep,
And break your own Neck down.
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.
I must to England, you know that?
Alack, I had forgot; 'Tis so concluded on.
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 prating Knave.
Come, Sir, to draw toward an end with you.
Good Night, Mother.
There's matters in these sighs, these profound heaves;
You must translate, 'tis fit we understand them.
Where is your Son?
Ah, my good Lord, what have I seen to Night?
What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet?
Mad as the Seas, and Wind, when both contend
Which is the mightier; in his lawless fit
Behind the Arras, hearing something stir,
He whips his Rapier out, and cries a Rat, a Rat,
And in his brainish apprehension, kills
The unseen good old Man.
Oh heavy deed!
It had been so with us, had we been there:
His Liberty is full of threats to all,
To you your self, to us, to every one.
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, lets it feed
Even on the pith of Life. Where is he gone?
To draw apart the Body he hath kill'd,
O'er whom his very Madness, like some Ore
Among a Mineral of Metals base,
Shews it self pure. He weeps for what is done.
Oh 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!
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 Chappel. I pray you haste in this.
[Ex. Ros. and Guild.
Gome, Gertrude, we'll call up our wisest Friends,
To let them know both what we mean to do,
And what's untimely done. Oh come away,
My Soul is full of discord and dismay.
Safely stowed.
Hamlet! Lord Hamlet!
What noise? who calls on Hamlet?
Oh here they come.
What have you done, my Lord, with the dead Body?
Compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis kin.
Tell us where 'tis, that we may take it thence,
And bear it to the Chappel.
Do not believe it.
Believe what?
A thing, my Lord?
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 pawse: Diseases desperate grown,
By desperate Appliance are relieved,
Or not at all.
Enter Roseneraus.
How now? what hath befal'n?
Where the dead Body is bestow'd, my Lord,
We cannot get from him.
But where is he?
Go seek him there.
He will stay 'till ye come.
Hamlet, this Deed of thine, 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 thy self,
The Bark is ready, and the Wind at help,
Th' Associates tend, and every thing at bent
For England.
For England?
Ay, Hamlet.
Good.
So is it, if thou knew'st our Purposes.
Follow him at foot, tempt him with speed aboard:
Delay it not, I'll have him hence to Night.
Away, for every thing is seal'd and done
That else leans on th'Affair; pray you make haste.
And England, if my Love thou hold'st at ought,
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 may'st 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 Hectick in my Blood he rages,
And thou must cure me; 'till I know 'tis done,
How-e'er my Haps, my Joys were ne'er begun.
Go, Captain, from me to the Danish King,
Tell him that by his License, Fortinbras
Claims the Conveyance of a promis'd March
Over his Kingdom. You know the Rendevouz;
If that his Majesty would ought with us,
We shall express our Duty in his Eye,
And let him know so.
I will do't, my Lord.
Go softly on.
[Exit Fortinbras.
Good Sir, whose Powers are these?
They are of Norway, Sir.
How propos'd, Sir, I pray you?
Against some part of Poland.
Who commands them, Sir?
The Nephew of old Norway, Fortinbras.
Goes it against the main of Poland, Sir,
Or for some Frontier?
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 Duckets, five I would not farm it,
Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole
A ranker Rate, should it be sold in Fee.
Why then the Pollock never will defend it.
Nay, 'tis already garrison'd.
Two thousand Souls, and twenty thousand Duckets
Will not debate the Question of this Straw;
This is th' imposthume of much Wealth and Peace,
That inward breaks, and shews no cause without
Why the Man dies. I humbly thank you, Sir.
God b'w'ye, Sir.
Wil't please you go, my Lord?
I'll be with you straight, go a little before.
[Exe.
Manet 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 God-like reason
To Rust 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 puft
Makes Mouths at the invisible Event,
Exposing what is mortal and unsure
To all that Fortune, Death, and Danger dare,
Even for an Egg-shell. 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 eminent Death of twenty thousand Men,
That for a fantasie 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.
I will not speak with her.
She is importunate,
Indeed distract; her mood will needs be pitied.
What would she have?
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 both the words up fit to their own Thoughts,
Which as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them,
Indeed would make one think there would be Thoughts
Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.
'Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strow
Dangerous Conjectures in ill-breeding Minds.
Let her come in.
To my sick Soul, as Sin's true Nature is,
Each toy seems Prologue to some great amiss,
So full of artless Jealousie is Guilt,
It spills it self in fearing to be spilt.
Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark?
How now, Ophelia?
How should I your true Love know, from another one?
By his cockle Hat and Staff, and his sandal Shoon.
Alas, sweet Lady; what imports this Song?
Say you? nay, pray you mark.
He is dead and gone, Lady, he is dead and gone,
At his Head a Grass-green Turf, at his Heels a Stone.
Nay, but Ophelia.—
Pray you mark.
White his Shrowd as the Mountain-Snow.
Alas, look here, my Lord.
Larded with sweet Flowers:
Which bewept to the Grave did not go,
With True-love showers.
How do ye, pretty Lady?
To morrow is St. Valentine's Day, all in the morn betime,
And I a Maid at your Window, to be your Valentine.
Then up he rose, and don'd his Cloths, and dupt the Chamber-door;
Let in a Maid, that out a Maid never departed more.
By Gis, and by S. Charity;
Alack, an 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,
And thou hadst not come to my Bed.
Follow her close, give her good Watch, I pray you;
Oh this is the Poison of deep Grief, it springs
All from her Father's death. Oh 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 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 her self, 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 this wonder, keeps himself in Clouds,
And wants not Buzzers to infect his Ear
With pestilent Speeches of his Father's Death;
Where in necessity, of matter beggar'd,
Will nothing stick our Persons to arraign
In Ear and Ear. O my dear Gertrude, this,
Like to a murdering Piece in many places,
Gives me superfluous Death.
Alack, what Noise is this?
Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the Door.
What is the matter?
Save your self, my Lord,
The Ocean, over peering of his List,
Eats not the Flats with more impetuous haste,
Than young Laertes, in a riotous Head,
O'er-bears your Officers; the Rabble call him Lord,
And as the World were now but to begin,
Antiquity forgot, Custome not known,
The ratifiers and props of every word,
They cry, chuse we Laertes for our King.
Caps, Hands, and Tongues, applaud it to the Clouds,
Laertes shall be King, Laertes King.
How chearfully on the false Trail they cry,
Oh this is Counter, you false Danish Dogs.
The Doors are broke.
Where is the King? Sirs! Stand you all without.
No, let's come in.
I pray you give me leave.
We will, we will.
I thank you; Keep the Door.
O thou vile King, give me my Father.
Calmly, good Laertes.
Crys Cuckold to my Father, brands the Harlot
Even here between the chaste unsmitched Brow
Of my true Mother.
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 art thou thus incenst? Let him go, Gertrude,
Speak Man.
Where's my Father?
Dead.
But not by him.
Let him demand his fill.
How came he dead? I'll not be juggl'd 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.
Who shall stay you?
My Will, not all the World.
And for my means, I'll husband them so well,
They shall go far with little.
Good Laertes:
If you desire to know the certainty
Of your dear Father's death, if 'tis not writ in your Revenge,
That Soop-stake you will draw both Friend and Foe,
Winner and Loser.
None but his Enemies.
Will you know them then?
To his good Friends thus wide I'll ope my Arms,
And like the kind life-rendring Pelican,
Repast them with my Blood.
Why now you speak
Like a good Child, and a true Gentleman.
That I am guiltless of your Father's death,
And am most sensible in Grief for it,
It shall as level to your Judgment pierce,
As Day does to your Eye.
How now? what noise is that?
O heat dry up my Brains, tears seven times salt,
Burn out the sense and virtue of mine Eye.
By Heav'n thy madness shall be paid by weight,
'Till our Scale turns the Beam. O Rose of May!
Dear Maid, kind Sister, sweet Ophelia!
O Heav'ns, 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 it self
After the thing it loves.
They bore him bare-fac'd on the Beer.
Hey non noney, noney, hey noney:
And on his Grave rains many a Tear,
Fare you well, my Dove.
Hadst thou thy wits, and didst perswade Revenge,
It could not move thus.
This nothing's more than matter.
For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
Thought, and Affliction, Passion, Hell it self,
She turns to favour, and to prettiness.
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 as white as Snow,
All Flaxen was his Pole:
He is gone, he is gone, and we cast away mone,
Gramercy on his Soul.
And of all Christian Souls, I pray God.
God b'w'ye.
[Exit Ophelia.
Do you see this, you Gods?
Laertes, I must commune with your Grief,
Or you deny me right: Go but a-part,
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.
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 Heav'n to Earth,
That I must call in question.
So you shall:
And where th' offence is, let the great Ax fall.
I pray you go with me.
What are they that would speak with me?
Sailors, Sir, they say they have Letters for you.
Let them come in,
I do not know from what part of the World
I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet.
Come, I will give you way for these your Letters,
And do't the speedier, that thou may direct me
To him, from whom you brought them.
Now you must your Conscience my Acquitance 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,
Pursued my Life.
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?
O for two special Reasons,
Which may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinew'd,
And yet to me they are strong. The Queen, his Mother,
Lives almost by his Looks; and for my self,
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 publick 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 Timbred for so loud a Wind,
Would have reverted to my Bow again,
And not where I had aim'd them.
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.
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 your self,
And that I hope will teach you to imagine—
Enter Messenger.
How now? What News?
Letters, my Lord, from Hamlet. This to your
Majesty: This to the Queen.
From Hamlet? Who brought them?
Sailors, my Lord, they say, I saw them not:
They were given me by Claudio, he receiv'd them.
Laertes, you shall hear them:
Leave us.
[Exit Messenger.
What should this mean? Are all the rest come back?
Or is it some abuse? Or no such thing?
Know you the Hand?
I'm 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 diddest thou.
If it be so, Laertes, as how should it be so?—
How otherwise?—will you be rul'd by me?
If so, you'll not o'er-rule me to a peace.
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 an exploit now ripe in my Device,
Under the which he shall not chuse but fall:
And for his death no wind of blame shall breathe,
But even his Mother shall uncharge the practice,
And call it accident.
My Lord, I will be rul'd,
The rather if you could devise it so
That I might be the Instrument.
It falls right:
You have been talkt 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.
What part is that, my Lord?
A very Feather in the Cap of Youth,
Yet needful too, for Youth no less becomes
The light and careless Livery that it wears,
Than setled Age his Sables, and his Weeds,
Importing Health and Graveness: Two Months since
Here was a Gentleman of Normandy;
I've seen my self and serv'd against the French,
And they ran well on Horse-back; but this Gallant
Had witchcraft in't, he grew into his Seat;
And to such wondrous doing brought his Horse,
And he had been encorps'd and demy-natur'd
With the brave Beast; so far he past my Thought,
That I in forgery of Shapes and Tricks,
Come short of what he did.
A Norman was't?
A Norman.
Upon my Life, Lamound.
The very same.
I know him well, he is the brooch indeed,
And Gem of all the Nation.
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 cry'd out, 'twould be a sight indeed,
If one could match you, Sir. This Report of his
Did Hamlet so envenom with his Envy,
That he could nothing do but wish and beg,
Your sudden coming over to play with him;
Now out of this—
Why out of this, my Lord?
Laertes, was your Father dear to you?
Or are you like the painting of a Sorrow,
A Face without a Heart?
Why ask you this?
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 wiek or snuff that will abate it,
And nothing is at a like Goodness still;
For Goodness growing to a Pleurisie,
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 Spend-thrift-sigh,
That hurts by easing; but to the quick of th' Ulcer,
Hamlet comes back, what would you undertake,
To shew your self your Father's Son in deed,
More than in words?
To cut his Throat i'th' Church.
No place indeed should murther sanctuarise;
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 chuse
A Sword unbaited, and in a pass of Practice,
Requite him for your Father.
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,
That is but scratch'd withal; I'll touch my point,
With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly,
It may be death.
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'd through our bad performance,
'Twere better not assay'd; therefore this Project
Should have a Back, or second, that might hold,
If this should blast in proof. Soft—let me see—
We'll make a solemn Wager on your Cunnings,
That—when in your Motion you are hot and dry,
As make your bouts more violent to the 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 Tuck,
Our purpose may hold there; how now, sweet Queen?
One Woe doth tread upon another's Heel,
So fast they'll follow: Your Sister's drown'd, Laertes.
Drown'd! O where?
There is a Willow grows aslant a Brook,
That shews his hoar leaves in the glassie Stream:
There with fantastick Garlands did she come,
Of Crow-flowers, Nettles, Daisies, and long Purples,
That liberal Shepherds give a grosser name to,
But our cold Maids do dead Men's Fingers call them:
There on the pendant boughs, her Coronet Weeds
Clambring to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down the weedy Trophies, and her self,
Fell in the weeping Brook, her Cloaths spread wide,
And Meremaid-like, a while they bear her up,
Which time she chaunted snatches of old Tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a Creature Native, and deduced
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.
Alas then, is she drown'd?
Drown'd, drown'd.
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 drowns it.
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.
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.
But Age with his stealing steps,
Hath caught me in his clutch:
And hath shipped me intill the Land,
As if I never had been such.
A Pick-axe and a Spade, a Spade,
For and a shrowding sheet!
O a Pit of Clay for to be made;
For such a Guest is meet.
O a pit of Clay for to be made,
For such a Guest is meet.
A whoreson mad Fellow's it was;
Whose do you think it was?
Nay, I know not.
Imperial Cæsar, dead and turn'd to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.
Oh, 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 King, Queen, Laertes, and a Coffin, with Lords and Priests Attendant.
The Queen, the Courtiers. What is't that they follow,
And with such maimed Rights? This doth betoken,
The Coarse they follow, did with desperate hand
Fore-do it's own Life; 'twas some Estate.
Couch we a while, and mark.
What Ceremony else?
That is Laertes, a very noble Youth: Mark—
What Ceremony else?
Her Obsequies have been as far enlarg'd,
As we have warranty; her death was doubtful,
And but that great command o'er-sways the order,
She should in ground unsanctified have lodg'd,
'Till the last Trumpet. For charitable Prayer,
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.
Must there no more be done?
No more be done:
We should prophane the service of the dead,
To sing sage Requiem, and such rest to her
As to peace-parted Souls.
Lay her i'th' earth,
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh,
May Violets spring. I tell thee, churlish Priest,
A Ministring Angel shall my Sister be,
When thou liest howling.
What, the fair Ophelia!
Sweets, to thee sweet, farewell,
I hop'd thou woul'dst have been my Hamlet's Wife;
I thought thy Bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet Maid,
And not t'have strew'd thy Grave.
O terrible wooer!
Fall tentimes treble woes on that curs'd 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 my arms:
[Laertes leaps into the Grave.
Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead,
'Till of this flat a mountain you have made,
To o'er-top old Pelion, or the skyish head
Of blue Olympus.
What is he, whose griefs
Bear such an Emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures the wandring Stars, and makes them stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,
[Hamlet leaps into the Grave.
Hamlet the Dane.
The Devil take thy Soul.
Thou pray'st not well,
I prithee take thy fingers from my throat—
Sir, though I am not spleenative and rash,
Yet have I something in me dangerous,
Which let thy wiseness fear. Away thy hand.
Pluck them asunder—
Hamlet, Hamlet—
Good my Lord be quiet.
Why, I will fight with him upon his Theme,
Until my Eye-lids will no longer wag.
Oh my Son! what Theme?
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?
Oh he is mad, Laertes.
For love of God forbear him.
Come shew me what thou'lt do.
Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't tear thy self?
Woo't drink up Esile, eat a Crocodile?
I'll do't. Do'st thou come hither to whine;
To out-face me with leaping into 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
Sindging his pate against the burning Zone,
Make Ossa like a wart. Nay, and thou'lt mouth,
I'll rant as well as thou.
This is mere madness;
And thus a while the fit will work on him:
Anon as patient as the female Dove,
When that her golden Cuplet are disclos'd,
His silence will sit drooping.
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.
I pray you good Horatio, wait upon him.
Strengthen your patience in our last Nights Speech
[To Laertes.
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.
So much for this, Sir; now let me see the other,
You do remember all the circumstance.
Remember it, my Lord?
Sir, in my Heart there was a kind of fighting,
That would not let me sleep; methought I lay
Worse than the mutineers in the Bilboes; rashly,
(And prais'd be rashness for it) let us know
Our Indiscretion sometimes serves us well,
When our dear Plots do pall; and that should teach us,
There's a Divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.
That is most certain.
Up from my Cabin,
My Sea-Gown scarft 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 reason,
Importing Denmark's Health, and England's too,
With hoo, such Buggs and Goblins in my life,
That on the supervize, no leisure bated,
No not to stay the grinding of the Axe,
My Head should be struck off.
Is't possible?
Here's the Commission, read it at more leisure;
But wilt thou hear how I did proceed?
I beseech you.
Being thus benetted round with Villains,
E'er I could make a Prologue to my Brains,
They had begun the Play. I sate 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 effects of what I wrote?
Ay, good my Lord.
An earnest Conjuration from the King,
As England was his faithful Tributary,
As love between them, as the Palm should flourish,
As Peace should still her wheaten Garland wear,
And stand a Comma 'tween their amities,
And many such like As's 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,
No shriving time allowed.
How was this seal'd?
Why even in that was Heav'n ordinate;
I had my Father's Signet in my Purse,
Which was the Model of that Danish Seal:
I folded the Writ up in form of the other,
Subscrib'd it, gave 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.
So, Guildenstern and Roseneraus, go to't.
Why Man, they did make love to this employment,
They are not near my Conscience; their debate
Doth by their own insinuation grow:
'Tis dangerous when baser nature comes
Between the pass, and fell incensed points
Of mighty opposites.
Why, what a King is this!
Does it not, think'st thou, stand me now upon?
He that hath kill'd my King, and whor'd my Mother,
Popt 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 his arm? And is't not to be damn'd,
To let this Canker of our Nature come
In further evil?
It must be shortly known to him from England,
What is the issue of the business there.
It will be short.
The Interim's 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 my self;
For by the Image of my cause I see
The Pourtraiture of his; I'll court his favours:
But sure the bravery of his grief did put me
Into a towring Passion.
Peace, who comes here?
Your Lordship is right welcome back to Denmark.
I humbly thank you, Sir. Dost know this water-fly?
No, my good Lord.
Come, Hamlet, come, and take this Hand from me.
Give me your pardon, Sir, I've 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, do's wrong Laertes;
Then Hamlet do's 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 mine Arrow o'er the House,
And hurt my Mother.
I am satisfi d 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 president of peace
To keep my Name ungorg'd. But 'till that time,
I do receive your offer'd love like love,
And will not wrong it.
I do embrace it freely,
And will this Brother's Wager frankly play,
Gives us the Foils: Come on.
Come one for me.
I'll be your Foil, Laertes, in mine ignorance,
Your skill shall like a Star i'th' brightest Night,
Stick fiery off indeed.
You mock me, Sir.
No, by this Hand.
Give the Foils, young Osrick.
Cousin Hamlet, you know the Wager.
Very well, my Lord,
Your Grace hath laid the odds o'th' weaker side.
I do not fear it, I have seen you both:
But since he is better'd, we have therefore odds.
This is too heavy,
Let me see another.
This likes me well;
These Foils have all a length?
Ay, my good Lord.
Set me the Stopes of Wine upon that Table:
If Hamlet give the first, or second hit,
Or quit in answer of a 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 Trumpets speak,
The Trupets to the Canoneer without,
The Canons to the Heav'ns, the Heav'n to Earth,
Now the King drinks to Hamlet. Come, begin,
And you the Judges bear a wary Eye.
Come on, Sir.
Come on, Sir.
One.
No.
Judgment.
A hit, a very palpable hit.
Well—again—
Stay, give me drink. Hamlet, this Pearl is thine,
Here's to thy health. Give him the Cup.
I'll play this bout first, set it by a while.
Come—another hit—what say you?
A touch, a touch, I do confess.
Our Son shall win.
He's fat, and scant of breath.
Here's a Napkin, rub thy brows,
The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.
Good Madam—
Gertrude, do not drink.
I will, my Lord; I pray you pardon me.
It is the poison'd Cup, it is too late.
I dare not drink yet, Madam, by and by.
Come, let me wipe thy Face.
My Lord, I'll hit him now.
I do not think't.
And yet 'tis almost 'gainst my Conscience.
Come, for the third. Laertes, you but dally,
I pray you pass with your best violence,
I am afraid you make a wanton of me.
Say you so? Come on.
Nothing neither way.
Have at you now.
Part them, they are incens'd.
Nay, come again—
Look to the Queen there, ho!
They bleed on both sides. How is't, my Lord?
How is't Laertes?
Why, as a Woodcock to my Sprindge, Osrick,
I am justly kill'd with mine own treachery.
How does the Queen?
She swoons to see them bleed.
No, no, the drink, the drink—
Oh my dear Hamlet, the drink, the drink,—
I am poison'd—
Oh Villany! How? Let the door be lock'd:
Treachery! seek it out—
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 it self on me. Lo, here I lye,
Never to rise again; thy Mother's poison'd;
I can no more—the King, the King's to blame.
The point envenom'd too,
Then venom to thy work.
Treason, Treason.
O yet defend me, Friends, I am but hurt.
Here thou incestuous, murd'rous, damned Dane,
Drink off this Potion: Is thy Union here?
Follow my Mother.
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.
Heav'n 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 at this Act,
Had I but time, (as this fell Serjeant Death
Is strict in his Arrest) oh I could tell you,
But let it be—Horatio, I am dead,
Thou liv'st, report me and my causes right
To the unsatisfied.
Never believe it.
I am more an Antique Roman than a Dane;
Here's yet some Liquor left
As th'art a Man, give me the Cup,
Let go, by Heav'n I'll hav't.
Oh, 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 a while,
And in this harsh World draw thy breath in pain,
To tell my story.
[March afar off, and shout within.
What warlike noise is this?
Young Fortinbras, with Conquest come from Poland,
To th' Ambassadors of England gives this Warlike Volley.
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 prophesie th' election lights
On Fortinbras, he has my dying Voice,
So tell him with the occurrents more or less,
Which have solicited.—The rest is silence, O, O, O.
Now cracks a noble Heart; good Night, sweet Prince;
And flights of Angels sing thee to thy rest.
Why do's the Drum come hither?
Where is the sight?
What is it you would see?
If ought of woe or wonder, cease your search.
This quarry cries on Havock. Oh proud death!
What Feast is toward in thine eternal Cell,
That thou so many Princes at a shoot,
So bloodily hast struck?
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 Command'ment is fulfill'd,
That Roseneraus and Guildenstern are dead:
Where should we have our thanks?
Not from his mouth,
Had it th' ability of life to thank you:
He never gave Command'ment 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 sp ak to th' yet unknowing World,
How these things came about. So shall you hear
Of cruel, 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.
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.
Of that I shall have also cause to speak,
And from his mouth whose Voice will draw no more:
But let this same be presently perform'd,
Even whiles Mens minds are wild, lest more mischance
On plots, and errors happen.
Let four Captains
Bear Hamlet like a Soldier off the Stage,
For he was likely, had he been put on,
To have prov'd most royally: and for his passage,
The Soldiers Musick, and the rites of War
Speak loudly for him.
Take up the Body: Such a sight as this,
Becomes the Field, but here shews much amiss.
Go, bid the Soldiers shoot. Previous section
Charles Gildon [1709–1710], The works of Mr. William Shakespear; in six [seven] volumes. Adorn'd with Cuts. Revis'd and Corrected, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By N. Rowe ([Vol. 7] Printed for E. Curll... and E. Sanger [etc.], London) [word count] [S11401].
