Bernardo.
Who's there?

Fran.
Nay, answer me: stand and unfold your self.

Ber.
Long live the King.

Fran.
Bernardo?

Ber.
He.

Fran.
You come most carefully upon your hour.

Ber.
'Tis now struck twelve, get thee to bed, Francisco.

Fran.
For this relief, much thanks: 'tis bitter cold,
And I am sick at heart.

Ber.
Have you had quiet guard?

Fran.
Not a mouse stirring.

Ber.
Well, good-night.
If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus,
The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste. Enter Horatio and Marcellus.

Fran.
I think I hear them. Stand; who's there?

Hor.
Friends to this ground.

Mar.
And liege-men to the Dane.

Fran.
Give you good-night.

Mar.
Oh farewel, honest soldier; who hath reliev'd you?

Fran.
Bernardo has my place: give you good-night. [Exit Francisco.

Mar.
Holla, Bernardo.

Ber.
Say, what is Horatio there?

Hor.
A piece of him.

Ber.
Welcome Horatio, welcome good Marcellus.

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

Ber.
I have seen nothing.

Mar.
Horatio says, 'tis but 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.

Hor.
Tush, tush, 'twill not appear.

Ber.
Sit down a while,
And let us once again assail your ears,
That are so fortified against our story,
What we have two nights seen.

Hor.
Well, sit we down,
And let us hear Bernardo speak of this.

Ber.
Last night of all,
When yon same star, that's westward from the pole,
Had made his course t'illume that part of heav'n
Where now it burns, Marcellus and my self,
The bell then beating one—

Mar.
Peace, break thee off;

Enter the Ghost.
Look where it comes again.

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

Mar.
Thou art a scholar, speak to it, Horatio.

Ber.
Looks it not like the King? mark it, Horatio.

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

Ber.
It would be spoke to.

Mar.
Speak to it, Horatio.

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

Mar.
It is offended.

Ber.
See! it stalks away.

Hor.
Stay; speak; I charge thee, speak. [Ex. Ghost.

Mar.
'Tis gone, and will not answer.

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

Hor.
Before my God, I might not this believe,
Without the sensible and true avouch
Of mine own eyes.

Mar.
Is it not like the King?

Hor.
As thou art to 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 sleaded ^{a note}Polack on the ice.
'Tis strange—

Mer.
Thus twice before, and just at this ^{b note}dead hour,
With martial stalk, hath he gone by our watch.

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

Mar.
Good now sit down, and tell me, he that knows,
Why this same strict and most observant watch
So nightly toils the subjects 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?

Hor.
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 prickt on by a most emulate pride)
Dar'd to the fight. In which, our valiant Hamlet,
(For so this side of our known world esteem'd him)
Did slay this Fortinbras: who by seal'd compact,
Well ratified by law and heraldry,
Did forfeit (with his life) all those his lands
Which he stood seiz'd of to the Conqueror:
Against the which, a moiety competent
Was gaged by our King; which had return
To the inheritance of Fortinbras,
Had he been vanquisher, as by that cov'nant
And carriage of the articles design'd,
His fell to Hamlet. Now 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.

Ber.
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.

Hor.
A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye.
In the most high and † ^notepalmy state of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,
The graves stood tenantless, 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. Enter Ghost again.
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 foreknowing 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—

Mar.
Shall I strike it with my partizan?

Hor.
Do, if it will not stand.

Ber.
'Tis here—

Hor.
'Tis here—

Mer.
'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.

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

Hor.
And then it started like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful summons. I have heard,
The cock that is the trumpet to the morn,
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the God of day; and at his warning,
Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air,
Th'extravagant and erring spirit hyes
To his confine. And of the truth herein,
This present object made probation.

Mar.
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 walks 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.

Hor.
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?

Mar.
Let's do't, I pray, and I this morning know
Where we shall find him most conveniently. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The Palace. Enter Claudius King of Denmark, Gertrude the Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, Voltimand, Cornelius, lords and attendants.

King.
Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death
The memory be green; and that it fitted
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 sometime 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, by all bands 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 bed-rid, scarcely hears
Of this his nephew's purpose, to suppress
His further gate herein. In that the levies,
The lists, and full proportions are all made
Out of his subjects; and we here dispatch
You, good Cornelius, and you Voltimand,
For bearers of this greeting to old Norway;
Giving to you no further personal power
Of treaty with the King, more than the scope
Which these dilated articles allow.
Farewel, and let your haste commend your duty.

Vol.
In that, and all things, will we shew our duty.

King.
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 would'st 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?

Laer.
My dread 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 tow'rd France:
And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.

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

Pol.
He hath, my lord, by laboursome petition,
Wrung from me my slow leave; and at the last
Upon his will I seal'd my hard consent.
I do beseech you give him leave to go.

King.
Take thy fair hour, Laertes, time be thine,
And thy best graces; spend it at thy will.
But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son—

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

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

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

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

Ham.
Ay, madam, it is common.

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

Ham.
Seems, madam? nay, it is; I know not seems:
'Tis not alone 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 may seem,
For they are actions that a man might play;
But I have that within, which passeth show:
These, but the trappings, and the suits of woe.

King.
'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature,
To give these mourning duties to your father:
But you must know, your father lost a father,
That father 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 stubborness, unmanly grief.
It shews a will most incorrect to heav'n,
A heart unfortify'd, a mind impatient,
An understanding simple, and unschool'd:
For what we know must be, and is as common
As any the must 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 tow'rd 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.

Queen.
Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet:
I pr'ythee stay with us, go not to Wittenberg.

Ham.
I shall in all my best obey you, madam.

King.
Why 'tis a loving, and a fair reply,
Be as 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 King's rowse the heav'n shall bruit again
Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Manet Hamlet.

Ham.
Oh 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. Oh God! oh God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world?
Fie on't! oh fie! 'tis an unweeded garden

That grows to seed; things rank, and gross in nature
Possess it meerly that it should come thus.
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; yet within a month?—
Let me not think—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, ev'n she,—
Oh heav'n! a beast that wants discourse of reason
Would have mourn'd longer—married with mine uncle,
My father's brother; no more like my father,
Than I to Hercules. Within a month!—
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her gauled eyes,
She married. Oh 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. SCENE IV. Enter Horatio, Bernardo, and Marcellus.

Hor.
Hail to your lordship.

Ham.
I am glad to see you well,
Horatio? or I do forget my self?

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

Ham.
Sir, my good friend, I'll change that name with you:

And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?
Marcellus!—

Mar.
My good lord—

Ham.
I am very glad to see you; good even, Sir.
But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?

Hor.
A truant disposition, good my lord.

Ham.
I would not ^{c note}hear 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 ere you depart.

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

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

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

Ham.
Thrift, thrift, Horatio: the funeral bak'd meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
Would I had met my dearest foe in heav'n,
Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio.
My father—methinks I see my father.

Hor.
Oh where, my lord?

Ham.
In my mind's eye, Horatio.

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

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

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

Ham.
Saw! who?—

Hor.
My lord, the King your father.

Ham.
The King my father!

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

Ham.
For heaven's love, let me hear.

Hor.
Two-nights together had these gentlemen,
Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch,
In the dead waste and middle of the night,
Been thus encountred. 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 (distill'd
Almost to jelly with the act of fear)
Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me
In dreadful secrecy impart they did,
And I with them the third night kept the watch,
Where as they had deliver'd both in time,
Form of the thing, each word made true and good,
The apparition comes. I knew your father:
These hands are not more like.

Ham.
But where was this?

Mar.
My lord, upon the platform where we watcht.

Ham.
Did you not speak to it?

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

Ham.
'Tis very strange.

Hor.
As I do live, my honour'd lord, 'tis true;
And we did think it writ down in our duty
To let you know of it.

Ham.
Indeed, Sirs, but this troubles me.

Hold you the watch to-night?

Both.
We do, my lord.

Ham.
Arm'd, say you?

Both.
Arm'd, my lord.

Ham.
From top to toe?

Both.
My lord, from head to foot.

Ham.
Then saw you not his face?

Hor.
Oh yes, my lord, he wore his beaver up.

Ham.
What, look'd he frowningly?

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

Ham.
Pale, or red?

Hor.
Nay, very pale.

Ham.
And fixt his eyes upon you?

Hor.
Most constantly.

Ham.
I would I had been there.

Hor.
It would have much amaz'd you.

Ham.
Very like; staid it long?

Hor.
While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.

All.
Longer, longer.

Hor.
Not when I saw't.

Ham.
His beard was grisly?

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

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

Hor.
I warrant you it will,

Ham.
If it assume my noble father's person,
I'll speak to it, tho' hell 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 ^{d note}treble in your silence still:
And whatsoever shall befall 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.

All.
Our duty to your honour. [Exeunt.

Ham.
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. [Exit. SCENE V. An Apartment in Polonius's house. Enter Laertes and Ophelia.

Laer.
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.

Oph.
Do you doubt that?

Laer.
For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favours,
Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood,
A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward, not permanent, tho' sweet, not lasting,
^{e note}The perfume, and suppliance of a minute;
No more.

Oph.
No more but so?

Laer.
Think it no more:
For nature crescent does not grow alone,
In † ^notethews 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 ^{f note}soil nor cautel doth besmerch
The virtue of his ^{g note}will: but you must fear

His greatness weigh'd, his will is not his own:
For he himself is subject to his birth;
He may not, as 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's head. Then if he says he loves you,
It fits your wisdom so far to believe it,
As he in his peculiar ^{h note}act and place
May give his saying deed; which is no further,
Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal.
Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain,
If with too credent ear you list his songs,
Or lose your heart; or your chaste treasure open
To his unmaster'd importunity.
Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister,
And keep 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 infants of the spring,
Too oft before their buttons be disclos'd;
And in the morn and liquid dew of youth
Contagious blastments are most imminent.
Be wary then, best safety lies in fear;
Youth to it self rebels, though none else near.

Oph.
I shall th' effects of this good lesson keep,
As watchman 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 careless libertine,

Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads,
† ^noteAnd recks not his own reed.

Laer.
Oh, fear me not. SCENE VI. Enter Polonius.

I stay too long;—but here my father comes:
A double blessing is a double grace;
Occasion smiles upon a second leave.

Pol.
Yet here, Laertes! get 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. &plquo;Give thy thoughts no tongue,
&plquo;Nor any unproportion'd thought his act:
&plquo;Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar;
&plquo;The friends thou hast, and their adoption try'd,
&plquo;Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel:
&plquo;But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
&plquo;Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware
&plquo;Of Entrance to a quarrel: but being in,
&plquo;Bear't that th' opposed may beware of thee.
&plquo;Give ev'ry man thine ear; but few thy voice.
&plquo;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!

Laer.
Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.

Pol.
The time invites you, go, your servants tend.

Laer.
Farewel Ophelia, and remember well
What I have said.

Oph.
'Tis in my mem'ry lockt,
And you your self shall keep the key of it.

Laer.
Farewel. [Exit Laer.

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

Oph.
So please you, something touching the lord Hamlet

Pol.
Marry, well bethought!
'Tis told me he hath very oft of late
Given private time to you; and you your self
Have of your audience been most free and bounteous.
If it be so, as so 'tis put on me,
And that in way of caution, I must tell you,
You do not understand your self so clearly,
As it behoves my daughter, and your honour.
What is between you? give me up the truth.

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

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

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

Pol.
Marry I'll teach you; think 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,)
Wronging it thus, you'll tender me a fool.

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

Pol.
Ay, fashion you may call't: go to, go to.

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

Pol.
Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know
When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul
Lends the tongue vows. These blazes, oh my daughter,
Giving more light than heat, extinct in both,
Ev'n in their promise as it is a making,
You must not take for fire. From this time,
Be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence,
Set your intreatments at a highter rate,
Than a command to parley. For lord Hamlet,
Believe so much in him, that he is young;
And with a larger † ^notetether may he walk,
Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia,
Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers,
^{i note}Not of that die which their investments shew,
But meer implorers 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's leisure,
As to give words or talk with the lord Hamlet.
Look to't, I charge you; come your way.

Oph.
I shall obey, my lord. [Exeunt.

SCENE VII. The Platform before the palace. Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus.

Ham.
The Air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.

Hor.
It is a nipping and an eager air.

Ham.
What hour now?

Hor.
I think it lacks of twelve.

Mar.
No, it is struck.

Hor.
I heard it not: it then draws near the season
Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk. [Noise of warlike musick within.
What does this mean, my lord?

Ham.
The King doth wake to-night, and takes his rowse,
Keeps wassel, and the swagg'ring upstart reels;
And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,
The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out
The triumph of his pledge.

Hor.
Is it a custom?

Ham.
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.* ^note

Enter Ghost.

Hor.
Look, my lord, it comes!

Ham.
Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from heav'n, or blasts from hell,
Be thy ^{k note}intents wicked or charitable,
Thou com'st in such a questionable shape,
That I will speak to thee. I'll call thee Hamlet,
King, Father, Royal Dane: 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 in-urn'd,
Hath ope'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? [Ghost beckons Hamlet.

Hor.
It beckons you to go away with it,

As if it some impartment did desire
To you alone.

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

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

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

Hor.
Do not, my lord.

Ham.
Why, what should be the fear?
I do not set my life at a pin's fee;
And for my soul, what can it do to that?
Being a thing immortal as it self.
It waves me forth again.—I'll follow it—

Hor.
What if it tempt you tow'rd the flood, my lord?
Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff,
That beetles o'er his base into the sea;
And there assume some other horrible form,
Which might deprive your sov'reignty of reason,
And draw you into madness? think of it.
* ^noteThe very place puts toys of desperation,
Without more motive, into ev'ry brain,
That looks so many fadoms to the sea;
And hears it roar beneath.

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

Mar.
You shall not go, my lord.

Ham.
Hold off your hand.

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

Ham.
My fate cries out,
And makes each petty 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 lets me—

I say away—go on—I'll follow thee— [Ex. Ghost and Ham.

Hor.
He waxes desp'rate with imagination.

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

Hor.
Have after. To what issue will this come?

Mar.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Hor.
Heav'n will direct it.

Mar.
Nay, let's follow him. [Exeunt. SCENE VIII. Re-Enter Ghost and Hamlet.

Ham.
Where wilt thou lead me? speak; I'll go no further.

Ghost.
Mark me.

Ham.
I will.

Ghost.
My hour is almost come,
When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames
Must render up my self.

Ham.
Alas poor Ghost!

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

Ham.
Speak, I am bound to hear.

Ghost.
So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.

Ham.
What?

Ghost.
I am thy Father's spirit;
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,
And for the day, confin'd to fast in fires;
'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 on end
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine:
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood; list, list, oh list!
If thou didst ever thy dear father love—

Ham.
Oh heav'n!

Ghost.
Revenge his foul and most unnatural murther.

Ham.
Murther?

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

Ham.
Haste me to know, that I with wings as swift
As meditation or the thoughts of love,
May sweep to my revenge.

Ghost.
I find thee apt;
And duller shouldst thou be than fat weed
That rots it self in ease on Lethe's wharf,
Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear:
'Tis given out, that sleeping in my orchard,
A serpent stung me. 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.

Ham.
Oh my prophetick soul! my uncle?

Ghost.
Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,
With witchcraft of his wit, with trait'rous 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 ev'n with the vow
I made to her in marriage; and to decline

Upon a wretch, whose nat'ral gifts were poor
To those of mine!
But virtue, as it never will be mov'd,
Though lewdness court it in a shape of heav'n;
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 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 leperous distilment; whose effect
Holds such an enmity with blood of man,
That swift as quick-silver it courses through
The nat'ral gates and allies of the body;
And with a sudden vigour it doth posset
And curd, like eager droppings into milk,
The thin and wholsome blood: so did it mine,
And a most instant tetter ^{l note}bark'd about,
Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust
All my smooth body.
Thus was I sleeping, by a brother's hand,
Of life, of crown, of Queen at once dispatcht;
Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,
† ^noteUnhouzzled, † ^noteunanointed, † ^noteunanel'd;
No reck'ning 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 pursu'st 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, adieu; remember me. [Exit.

Ham.
Oh all you host of heav'n! oh earth! what else?
And shall I couple hell? oh 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, by heav'n:
Oh most pernicious woman!
Oh villain, villain, smiling damned villain!
My tables,—meet it is I set it down,
That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;
At least I'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've sworn it—

SCENE IX. Enter Horatio and Marcellus.

Hor.
My lord, my lord.

Mar.
Lord Hamlet.

Hor.
Heav'n secure him.

Mar.
So be it.

Hor.
Illo, ho, ho, my lord.

Ham.
Hillo, ho, ho, boy; come boy, come.

Mar.
How is't, my noble lord?

Hor.
What news, my lord?

Ham.
Oh wonderful!

Hor.
Good my lord, tell it.

Ham.
No, you'll reveal it.

Hor.
Not I, my lord, by heav'n.

Mar.
Nor I, my lord.

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

Both.
Ay, by heav'n, my lord.

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

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

Ham.
Why right, you are i'th' 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 my own poor part,
I will go pray.

Hor.
These are but wild and hurling words, my lord.

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

Hor.
There's no offence, my lord.

Ham.
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.

Hor.
What is't, my lord?

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

Both.
My lord, we will not.

Ham.
Nay, but swear't.

Hor.
In faith, my lord, not I.

Mar.
Nor I, my lord, in faith.

Ham.
Upon my sword.

Mar.
We've sworn, my lord, already.

Ham.
Indeed, upon my sword, indeed.

Ghost.
Swear. [Ghost cries under the stage.

Ham.
Ah ha boy, say'st thou so; art thou there truepenny?
Come on, you hear this fellow in the celleridge.
Consent to swear.

Hor.
Propose the oath, my lord.

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

Ghost.
Swear.

Ham.
Hic & ubique? then we'll shift our ground.
Come hither gentlemen,
And lay your hands again upon my sword.
Never to speak of this which you have heard,
Swear by my sword.

Ghost.
Swear.

Ham.
Well said, old mole, can'st work i'th' ground so fast?
A worthy pioneer! Once more remove, good friends.

Hor.
Oh day and night! but this is wondrous strange.

Ham.
And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.
There are more things in heav'n and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But come,
Here as before, never so help you mercy,
(How strange or odd soe'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 this head shake;
Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase;
As well—we know—or, we could, and if we would—
Or, if we list to speak—or, there be and if there might—
Or such ambiguous giving out to note,
That you know ought of me; this do ye swear.
So grace and mercy at your most need help you.
Swear.

Ghost.
Swear.

Ham.
Rest, rest, perturbed spirit. So, gentlemen,
With all my love I do commend me to you;
And what so poor a man as Hamlet is,
May do t' express his love and 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. [Exeunt.

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