Listing av Hamlets replikker
AsideA little more than kin, and less than kind.
Not so, my lord; I am too much i' the sun.
Ay, madam, it is common.
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 forced breath,No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,That can denote me truly: these indeed seem,For they are actions that a man might play:But I have that within which passeth show;These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
I shall in all my best obey you, madam.
O, that this too too solid flesh would meltThaw and resolve itself into a dew!Or that the Everlasting had not fix'dHis canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,Seem to me all the uses of this world!Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,That grows to seed; things rank and gross in naturePossess it merely. 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 motherThat he might not beteem the winds of heavenVisit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,As if increase of appetite had grownBy what it fed on: and yet, within a month--Let me not think on't--Frailty, thy name is woman!--A little month, or ere those shoes were oldWith which she follow'd my poor father's body,Like Niobe, all tears:--why she, even she--O, God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,Would have mourn'd longer--married with my uncle,My father's brother, but no more like my fatherThan I to Hercules: within a month:Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tearsHad left the flushing in her galled eyes,She married. O, most wicked speed, to postWith such dexterity to incestuous sheets!It is not nor it cannot come to good:But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue.Enter HORATIO, MARCELLUS, and BERNARDO
I am glad to see you well:Horatio,--or I do forget myself.
Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name with you:And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio? Marcellus?
I am very glad to see you. Good even, sir.But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?
I would not hear your enemy say so,Nor shall you do mine ear that violence,To make it truster of your own reportAgainst yourself: I know you are no truant.But what is your affair in Elsinore?We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.
I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student;I think it was to see my mother's wedding.
Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral baked meatsDid coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.Would I had met my dearest foe in heavenOr ever I had seen that day, Horatio!My father!--methinks I see my father.
In my mind's eye, Horatio.
He was a man, take him for all in all,I shall not look upon his like again.
The king my father!
For God's love, let me hear.
But where was this?
Did you not speak to it?
'Tis very strange.
Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me.Hold you the watch to-night?
Arm'd, say you?
From top to toe?
Then saw you not his face?
What, look'd he frowningly?
Pale or red?
And fix'd his eyes upon you?
I would I had been there.
Very like, very like. Stay'd it long?
His beard was grizzled--no?
I will watch to-night;Perchance 'twill walk again.
If it assume my noble father's person,I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gapeAnd bid me hold my peace. I pray you all,If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight,Let it be tenable 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 you well:Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve,I'll visit you.
Your loves, as mine to you: farewell.Exeunt all but HAMLETMy 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,Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.Exit
The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.
What hour now?
No, it is struck.
The king doth wake to-night and takes his rouse,Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels;And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray outThe triumph of his pledge.
Ay, marry, is't:But to my mind, though I am native hereAnd to the manner born, it is a customMore honour'd in the breach than the observance.This heavy-headed revel east and westMakes us traduced and tax'd of other nations:They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phraseSoil our addition; and indeed it takesFrom our achievements, though perform'd at height,The pith and marrow of our attribute.So, oft it chances in particular men,That for some vicious mole of nature in them,As, in their birth--wherein they are not guilty,Since nature cannot choose his origin--By the o'ergrowth of some complexion,Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason,Or by some habit that too much o'er-leavensThe form of plausive manners, that these men,Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,Being nature's livery, or fortune's star,--Their virtues else--be they as pure as grace,As infinite as man may undergo--Shall in the general censure take corruptionFrom that particular fault: the dram of ealeDoth all the noble substance of a doubtTo his own scandal.
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 intents wicked or charitable,Thou comest in such a questionable shapeThat I will speak to thee: I'll call thee Hamlet,King, father, royal Dane: O, answer me!Let me not burst in ignorance; but tellWhy thy canonized bones, hearsed in death,Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre,Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn'd,Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws,To cast thee up again. What may this mean,That thou, dead corse, again in complete steelRevisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon,Making night hideous; and we fools of natureSo horridly to shake our dispositionWith thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?Say, why is this? wherefore? what should we do?Ghost beckons HAMLET
It will not speak; then I will follow it.
Why, what should be the fear?I do not set my life in a pin's fee;And for my soul, what can it do to that,Being a thing immortal as itself?It waves me forth again: I'll follow it.
It waves me still.Go on; I'll follow thee.
Hold off your hands.
My fate cries out,And makes each petty artery in this bodyAs hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.Still am I call'd. Unhand me, gentlemen.By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me!I say, away! Go on; I'll follow thee.Exeunt Ghost and HAMLET
Where wilt thou lead me? speak; I'll go no further.
Alas, poor ghost!
Speak; I am bound to hear.
Haste me to know't, that I, with wings as swiftAs meditation or the thoughts of love,May sweep to my revenge.
O my prophetic soul! My uncle!
O all you host of heaven! O earth! what else?And shall I couple hell? O, fie! Hold, 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 seatIn this distracted globe. Remember thee!Yea, from the table of my memoryI'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 liveWithin the book and volume of my brain,Unmix'd with baser matter: yes, by heaven!O most pernicious woman!O 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:WritingSo, uncle, there you are. Now to my word;It is 'Adieu, adieu! remember me.'I have sworn 't.
So be it!
Hillo, ho, ho, boy! come, bird, come.Enter HORATIO and MARCELLUS
No; you'll reveal it.
How say you, then; would heart of man once think it?But you'll be secret?
There's ne'er a villain dwelling in all DenmarkBut he's an arrant knave.
Why, right; you are i' the right;And so, without more circumstance at all,I hold it fit that we shake hands and part:You, as your business and desire 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.
I'm sorry they offend you, heartily;Yes, 'faith heartily.
Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio,And much offence too. Touching this vision here,It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you:For your desire to know what is between us,O'ermaster 't as you may. And now, good friends,As you are friends, scholars and soldiers,Give me one poor request.
Never make known what you have seen to-night.
Nay, but swear't.
Upon my sword.
Indeed, upon my sword, indeed.
Ah, ha, boy! say'st thou so? art thou there,truepenny?Come on--you hear this fellow in the cellarage--Consent to swear.
Never to speak of this that you have seen,Swear by my sword.
Hic et ubique? then we'll shift our 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.
Well said, old mole! canst work i' the earth so fast?A worthy pioner! Once more remove, good friends.
And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.There are more things in heaven 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 myself,As I perchance hereafter shall think meetTo put an antic disposition on,That you, at such times seeing me, never shall,With arms encumber'd thus, or this headshake,Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase,As 'Well, well, we know,' or 'We could, an if we would,'Or 'If we list to speak,' or 'There be, an if they might,'Or such ambiguous giving out, to noteThat you know aught of me: this not to do,So grace and mercy at your most need help you, Swear.
Rest, rest, perturbed spirit!They swearSo, gentlemen,With all my love I do commend me to you:And what so poor a man as Hamlet isMay do, to 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: O cursed spite,That ever I was born to set it right!Nay, come, let's go together.Exeunt
Excellent well; you are a fishmonger.
Then I would you were so honest a man.
Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to beone man picked out of ten thousand.
For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being agod kissing carrion,--Have you a daughter?
Let her not walk i' the sun: conception is ablessing: but not as your daughter may conceive.Friend, look to 't.
Words, words, words.
Slanders, sir: for the satirical rogue says herethat old men have grey beards, that their faces arewrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber andplum-tree gum and that they have a plentiful lack ofwit, together with most weak hams: all which, sir,though I most powerfully and potently believe, yetI hold it not honesty to have it thus set down, foryourself, sir, should be old as I am, if like a crabyou could go backward.
Into my grave.
You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I willmore willingly part withal: except my life, exceptmy life, except my life.
These tedious old fools!Enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN
My excellent good friends! How dost thou,Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do ye both?
Nor the soles of her shoe?
Then you live about her waist, or in the middle ofher favours?
In the secret parts of fortune? O, most true; sheis a strumpet. What's the news?
Then is doomsday near: but your news is not true.Let me question more in particular: what have you,my good friends, deserved at the hands of fortune,that she sends you to prison hither?
Denmark's a prison.
A goodly one; in which there are many confines,wards and dungeons, Denmark being one o' the worst.
Why, then, 'tis none to you; for there is nothingeither good or bad, but thinking makes it so: to meit is a prison.
O God, I could be bounded in a nut shell and countmyself a king of infinite space, were it not that Ihave bad dreams.
A dream itself is but a shadow.
Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs andoutstretched heroes the beggars' shadows. Shall weto the court? for, by my fay, I cannot reason.
No such matter: I will not sort you with the restof my servants, for, to speak to you like an honestman, I am most dreadfully attended. But, in thebeaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore?
Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but Ithank you: and sure, dear friends, my thanks aretoo dear a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is ityour own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come,deal justly with me: come, come; nay, speak.
Why, any thing, but to the purpose. You were sentfor; and there is a kind of confession in your lookswhich your modesties have not craft enough to colour:I know the good king and queen have sent for you.
That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, bythe rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy ofour youth, by the obligation of our ever-preservedlove, and by what more dear a better proposer couldcharge you withal, be even and direct with me,whether you were sent for, or no?
AsideNay, then, I have an eye of you.--If youlove me, hold not off.
I will tell you why; so shall my anticipationprevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the kingand queen moult no feather. I have of late--butwherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone allcustom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavilywith my disposition that this goodly frame, theearth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this mostexcellent canopy, the air, look you, this braveo'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof frettedwith golden fire, why, it appears no other thing tome than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!how infinite in faculty! in form and moving howexpress and admirable! in action how like an angel!in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of theworld! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me,what is this quintessence of dust? man delights notme: no, nor woman neither, though by your smilingyou seem to say so.
Why did you laugh then, when I said 'man delights not me'?
He that plays the king shall be welcome; his majestyshall have tribute of me; the adventurous knightshall use his foil and target; the lover shall notsigh gratis; the humourous man shall end his partin peace; the clown shall make those laugh whoselungs are tickled o' the sere; and the lady shallsay her mind freely, or the blank verse shall haltfor't. What players are they?
How chances it they travel? their residence, bothin reputation and profit, was better both ways.
Do they hold the same estimation they did when I wasin the city? are they so followed?
How comes it? do they grow rusty?
What, are they children? who maintains 'em? how arethey escoted? Will they pursue the quality nolonger than they can sing? will they not sayafterwards, if they should grow themselves to commonplayers--as it is most like, if their means are nobetter--their writers do them wrong, to make themexclaim against their own succession?
Do the boys carry it away?
It is not very strange; for mine uncle is king ofDenmark, and those that would make mows at him whilemy father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, anhundred ducats a-piece for his picture in little.'Sblood, there is something in this more thannatural, if philosophy could find it out.Flourish of trumpets within
Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands,come then: the appurtenance of welcome is fashionand ceremony: let me comply with you in this garb,lest my extent to the players, which, I tell you,must show fairly outward, should more appear likeentertainment than yours. You are welcome: but myuncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.
I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind issoutherly I know a hawk from a handsaw.Enter POLONIUS
Hark you, Guildenstern; and you too: at each ear ahearer: that great baby you see there is not yetout of his swaddling-clouts.
I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players;mark it. You say right, sir: o' Monday morning;'twas so indeed.
My lord, I have news to tell you.When Roscius was an actor in Rome,--
Then came each actor on his ass,--
O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou!
Why,'One fair daughter and no more,The which he loved passing well.'
Am I not i' the right, old Jephthah?
Nay, that follows not.
Why,'As by lot, God wot,'and then, you know,'It came to pass, as most like it was,'--the first row of the pious chanson will show youmore; for look, where my abridgement comes.Enter four or five PlayersYou are welcome, masters; welcome, all. I am gladto see thee well. Welcome, good friends. O, my oldfriend! thy face is valenced since I saw thee last:comest thou to beard me in Denmark? What, my younglady and mistress! By'r lady, your ladyship isnearer to heaven than when I saw you last, by thealtitude of a chopine. Pray God, your voice, likeapiece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within thering. Masters, you are all welcome. We'll e'ento't like French falconers, fly at any thing we see:we'll have a speech straight: come, give us a tasteof your quality; come, a passionate speech.
I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it wasnever acted; or, if it was, not above once; for theplay, I remember, pleased not the million; 'twascaviare to the general: but it was--as I receivedit, and others, whose judgments in such matterscried in the top of mine--an excellent play, welldigested in the scenes, set down with as muchmodesty as cunning. I remember, one said therewere no sallets in the lines to make the mattersavoury, nor no matter in the phrase that mightindict the author of affectation; but called it anhonest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by verymuch more handsome than fine. One speech in it Ichiefly loved: 'twas Aeneas' tale to Dido; andthereabout of it especially, where he speaks ofPriam's slaughter: if it live in your memory, beginat this line: let me see, let me see--'The rugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast,'--it is not so:--it begins with Pyrrhus:--'The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms,Black as his purpose, did the night resembleWhen he lay couched in the ominous horse,Hath now this dread and black complexion smear'dWith heraldry more dismal; head to footNow is he total gules; horridly trick'dWith blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons,Baked and impasted with the parching streets,That lend a tyrannous and damned lightTo their lord's murder: roasted in wrath and fire,And thus o'er-sized with coagulate gore,With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish PyrrhusOld grandsire Priam seeks.'So, proceed you.
It shall to the barber's, with your beard. Prithee,say on: he's for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or hesleeps: say on: come to Hecuba.
'The mobled queen?'
'Tis well: I'll have thee speak out the rest soon.Good my lord, will you see the players wellbestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used; forthey are the abstract and brief chronicles of thetime: after your death you were better have a badepitaph than their ill report while you live.
God's bodykins, man, much better: use every manafter his desert, and who should 'scape whipping?Use them after your own honour and dignity: the lessthey deserve, the more merit is in your bounty.Take them in.
Follow him, friends: we'll hear a play to-morrow.Exit POLONIUS with all the Players but the FirstDost thou hear me, old friend; can you play theMurder of Gonzago?
We'll ha't to-morrow night. You could, for a need,study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, whichI would set down and insert in't, could you not?
Very well. Follow that lord; and look you mock himnot.Exit First PlayerMy good friends, I'll leave you till night: you arewelcome to Elsinore.
Ay, so, God be wi' ye;Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERNNow 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 own conceitThat from her working all his visage wann'd,Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect,A broken voice, and his whole function suitingWith 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 passionThat I have? He would drown the stage with tearsAnd cleave the general ear with horrid speech,Make mad the guilty and appal the free,Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeedThe very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I,A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak,Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,And can say nothing; no, not for a king,Upon whose property and most dear lifeA damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward?Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across?Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face?Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat,As deep as to the lungs? who does me this?Ha!'Swounds, I should take it: for it cannot beBut I am pigeon-liver'd and lack gallTo make oppression bitter, or ere thisI should have fatted all the region kitesWith this slave's offal: bloody, bawdy villain!Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain!O, vengeance!Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave,That I, the son of a dear father murder'd,Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words,And fall a-cursing, like a very drab,A scullion!Fie upon't! foh! About, my brain! I have heardThat guilty creatures sitting at a playHave by the very cunning of the sceneBeen struck so to the soul that presentlyThey have proclaim'd their malefactions;For murder, though it have no tongue, will speakWith most miraculous organ. I'll have these playersPlay something like the murder of my fatherBefore 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 seenMay be the devil: and the devil hath powerTo assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhapsOut of my weakness and my melancholy,As he is very potent with such spirits,Abuses me to damn me: I'll have groundsMore relative than this: the play 's the thingWherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.Exit
To be, or not to be: that is the question:Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;No more; and by a sleep to say we endThe heart-ache and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummationDevoutly 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 comeWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause: there's the respectThat makes calamity of so long life;For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,The insolence of office and the spurnsThat patient merit of the unworthy takes,When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,To grunt and sweat under a weary life,But that the dread of something after death,The undiscover'd country from whose bournNo traveller returns, puzzles the willAnd makes us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,And enterprises of great pith and momentWith this regard their currents turn awry,And lose the name of action.--Soft you now!The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisonsBe all my sins remember'd.
I humbly thank you; well, well, well.
No, not I;I never gave you aught.
Ha, ha! are you honest?
Are you fair?
That if you be honest and fair, your honesty shouldadmit no discourse to your beauty.
Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will soonertransform honesty from what it is to a bawd than theforce of honesty can translate beauty into hislikeness: this was sometime a paradox, but now thetime gives it proof. I did love you once.
You should not have believed me; for virtue cannotso inoculate our old stock but we shall relish ofit: I loved you not.
Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be abreeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest;but yet I could accuse me of such things that itwere better my mother had not borne me: I am veryproud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences atmy beck than I have thoughts to put them in,imagination to give them shape, or time to act themin. What should such fellows as I do crawlingbetween earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves,all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery.Where's your father?
Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play thefool no where but in's own house. Farewell.
If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague forthy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure assnow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to anunnery, go: farewell. Or, if thou wilt needsmarry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enoughwhat monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go,and quickly too. Farewell.
I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; Godhas given you one face, and you make yourselvesanother: you jig, you amble, and you lisp, andnick-name God's creatures, and make your wantonnessyour ignorance. Go to, I'll no more on't; it hathmade me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages:those that are married already, all but one, shalllive; the rest shall keep as they are. To anunnery, go.Exit
Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it toyou, trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it,as many of your players do, I had as lief thetown-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the airtoo much with your hand, thus, but use all gently;for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say,the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and begeta temperance that may give it smoothness. O, itoffends me to the soul to hear a robustiousperiwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, tovery rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, whofor the most part are capable of nothing butinexplicable dumbshows and noise: I would have sucha fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; itout-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it.
Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretionbe your tutor: suit the action to the word, theword to the action; with this special o'erstep notthe modesty of nature: for any thing so overdone isfrom the purpose of playing, whose end, both at thefirst and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, themirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature,scorn her own image, and the very age and body ofthe time his form and pressure. Now this overdone,or come tardy off, though it make the unskilfullaugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; thecensure of the which one must in your allowanceo'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there beplayers that I have seen play, and heard otherspraise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely,that, neither having the accent of Christians northe gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have sostrutted and bellowed that I have thought some ofnature's journeymen had made men and not made themwell, they imitated humanity so abominably.
O, reform it altogether. And let those that playyour clowns speak no more than is set down for them;for there be of them that will themselves laugh, toset on some quantity of barren spectators to laughtoo; though, in the mean time, some necessaryquestion of the play be then to be considered:that's villanous, and shows a most pitiful ambitionin the fool that uses it. Go, make you ready.Exeunt PlayersEnter POLONIUS, ROSENCRANTZ, and GUILDENSTERNHow now, my lord! I will the king hear this piece of work?
Bid the players make haste.Exit POLONIUSWill you two help to hasten them?
What ho! Horatio!Enter HORATIO
Horatio, thou art e'en as just a manAs e'er my conversation coped withal.
Nay, do not think I flatter;For what advancement may I hope from theeThat no revenue hast but thy good spirits,To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter'd?No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,And crook the pregnant hinges of the kneeWhere thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?Since my dear soul was mistress of her choiceAnd could of men distinguish, her electionHath seal'd thee for herself; for thou hast beenAs one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing,A man that fortune's buffets and rewardsHast ta'en with equal thanks: and blest are thoseWhose blood and judgment are so well commingled,That they are not a pipe for fortune's fingerTo sound what stop she please. Give me that manThat is not passion's slave, and I will wear himIn 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 circumstanceWhich I have told thee of my father's death:I prithee, when thou seest that act afoot,Even with the very comment of thy soulObserve mine uncle: if his occulted guiltDo not itself unkennel in one speech,It is a damned ghost that we have seen,And my imaginations are as foulAs Vulcan's stithy. Give him heedful note;For I mine eyes will rivet to his face,And after we will both our judgments joinIn censure of his seeming.
They are coming to the play; I must be idle:Get you a place.Danish march. A flourish. Enter KING CLAUDIUS,QUEEN GERTRUDE, POLONIUS, OPHELIA, ROSENCRANTZ,GUILDENSTERN, and others
Excellent, i' faith; of the chameleon's dish: I eatthe air, promise-crammed: you cannot feed capons so.
No, nor mine now.To POLONIUSMy lord, you played once i' the university, you say?
What did you enact?
It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calfthere. Be the players ready?
No, good mother, here's metal more attractive.
Lady, shall I lie in your lap?Lying down at OPHELIA's feet
I mean, my head upon your lap?
Do you think I meant country matters?
That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs.
O God, your only jig-maker. What should a man dobut be merry? for, look you, how cheerfully mymother looks, and my father died within these two hours.
So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black, forI'll have a suit of sables. O heavens! die twomonths ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there'shope a great man's memory may outlive his life halfa year: but, by'r lady, he must build churches,then; or else shall he suffer not thinking on, withthe hobby-horse, whose epitaph is 'For, O, for, O,the hobby-horse is forgot.'Hautboys play. The dumb-show entersEnter a King and a Queen very lovingly; the Queenembracing him, and he her. She kneels, and makesshow of protestation unto him. He takes her up,and declines his head upon her neck: lays him downupon a bank of flowers: she, seeing him asleep,leaves him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes off hiscrown, kisses it, and pours poison in the King'sears, and exit. The Queen returns; finds the Kingdead, and makes passionate action. The Poisoner,with some two or three Mutes, comes in again,seeming to lament with her. The dead body iscarried away. The Poisoner wooes the Queen withgifts: she seems loath and unwilling awhile, butin the end accepts his loveExeunt
Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief.
We shall know by this fellow: the players cannotkeep counsel; they'll tell all.
Ay, or any show that you'll show him: be not youashamed to show, he'll not shame to tell you what it means.
Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?
As woman's love.Enter two Players, King and Queen
If she should break it now!
Madam, how like you this play?
O, but she'll keep her word.
No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest; no offencei' the world.
The Mouse-trap. Marry, how? Tropically. This playis the image of a murder done in Vienna: Gonzago isthe duke's name; his wife, Baptista: you shall seeanon; 'tis a knavish piece of work: but what o'that? your majesty and we that have free souls, ittouches us not: let the galled jade wince, ourwithers are unwrung.Enter LUCIANUSThis is one Lucianus, nephew to the king.
I could interpret between you and your love, if Icould see the puppets dallying.
It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge.
So you must take your husbands. Begin, murderer;pox, leave thy damnable faces, and begin. Come:'the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.'
He poisons him i' the garden for's estate. Hisname's Gonzago: the story is extant, and writ inchoice Italian: you shall see anon how the murderergets the love of Gonzago's wife.
What, frighted with false fire!
Why, let the stricken deer go weep,The hart ungalled play;For some must watch, while some must sleep:So runs the world away.Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers-- ifthe rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me--with twoProvincial roses on my razed shoes, get me afellowship in a cry of players, sir?
A whole one, I.For thou dost know, O Damon dear,This realm dismantled wasOf Jove himself; and now reigns hereA very, very--pajock.
O good Horatio, I'll take the ghost's word for athousand pound. Didst perceive?
Upon the talk of the poisoning?
Ah, ha! Come, some music! come, the recorders!For if the king like not the comedy,Why then, belike, he likes it not, perdy.Come, some music!Re-enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN
Sir, a whole history.
Ay, sir, what of him?
With drink, sir?
Your wisdom should show itself more richer tosignify this to his doctor; for, for me to put himto his purgation would perhaps plunge him into farmore choler.
I am tame, sir: pronounce.
You are welcome.
Sir, I cannot.
Make you a wholesome answer; my wit's diseased: but,sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command;or, rather, as you say, my mother: therefore nomore, but to the matter: my mother, you say,--
O wonderful son, that can so astonish a mother! Butis there no sequel at the heels of this mother'sadmiration? Impart.
We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Haveyou any further trade with us?
So I do still, by these pickers and stealers.
Sir, I lack advancement.
Ay, but sir, 'While the grass grows,'--the proverbis something musty.Re-enter Players with recordersO, the recorders! let me see one. To withdraw withyou:--why do you go about to recover the wind of me,as if you would drive me into a toil?
I do not well understand that. Will you play uponthis pipe?
I pray you.
I do beseech you.
'Tis as easy as lying: govern these ventages withyour lingers and thumb, give it breath with yourmouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music.Look you, these are the stops.
Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make ofme! You would play upon me; you would seem to knowmy stops; you would pluck out the heart of mymystery; you would sound me from my lowest note tothe top of my compass: and there is much music,excellent voice, in this little organ; yet cannotyou make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I ameasier to be played on than a pipe? Call me whatinstrument you will, though you can fret me, yet youcannot play upon me.Enter POLONIUSGod bless you, sir!
Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel?
Methinks it is like a weasel.
Or like a whale?
Then I will come to my mother by and by. They foolme to the top of my bent. I will come by and by.
By and by is easily said.Exit POLONIUSLeave me, friends.Exeunt all but HAMLETTis now the very witching time of night,When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes outContagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,And do such bitter business as the dayWould quake to look on. Soft! now to my mother.O heart, lose not thy nature; let not everThe 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 soever she be shent,To give them seals never, my soul, consent!Exit
Now might I do it pat, now he is praying;And now I'll do't. And so he goes to heaven;And so am I revenged. That would be scann'd:A villain kills my father; and for that,I, his sole son, do this same villain sendTo heaven.O, this is hire and salary, not revenge.He took my father grossly, full of bread;With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May;And how his audit stands who knows save heaven?But in our circumstance and course of thought,'Tis heavy with him: and am I then revenged,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 hent:When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage,Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed;At gaming, swearing, or about some actThat has no relish of salvation in't;Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven,And that his soul may be as damn'd and blackAs hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays:This physic but prolongs thy sickly days.Exit
WithinMother, mother, mother!
Now, mother, what's the matter?
Mother, you have my father much offended.
Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.
What's the matter now?
No, by the rood, not so:You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife;And--would it were not so!--you are my mother.
Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not budge;You go not till I set you up a glassWhere you may see the inmost part of you.
DrawingHow now! a rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead!Makes a pass through the arras
Nay, I know not:Is it the king?
A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother,As kill a king, and marry with his brother.
Ay, lady, 'twas my word.Lifts up the array and discovers POLONIUSThou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune;Thou find'st to be too busy 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 brass'd it soThat it is proof and bulwark against sense.
Such an actThat blurs the grace and blush of modesty,Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the roseFrom the fair forehead of an innocent loveAnd sets a blister there, makes marriage-vowsAs false as dicers' oaths: O, such a deedAs from the body of contraction plucksThe very soul, and sweet religion makesA rhapsody of words: heaven's face doth glow:Yea, this solidity and compound mass,With tristful visage, as against the doom,Is thought-sick at the act.
Look here, upon this picture, and on this,The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.See, what a grace was seated on this brow;Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;A station like the herald MercuryNew-lighted on a heaven-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 moor? Ha! have you eyes?You cannot call it love; for at your ageThe hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble,And waits upon the judgment: and what judgmentWould step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have,Else could you not have motion; but sure, that senseIs apoplex'd; for madness would not err,Nor sense to ecstasy was ne'er so thrall'dBut it reserved some quantity of choice,To serve in such a difference. What devil was'tThat thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind?Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,Or but a sickly part of one true senseCould not so mope.O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones,To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shameWhen the compulsive ardour gives the charge,Since frost itself as actively doth burnAnd reason panders will.
Nay, but to liveIn the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making loveOver the nasty sty,--
A murderer and a villain;A slave that is not twentieth part the titheOf 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!
A king of shreds and patches,--Enter GhostSave me, and hover o'er me with your wings,You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure?
Do you not come your tardy son to chide,That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go byThe important acting of your dread command? O, say!
How is it with you, lady?
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 piteous action you convertMy stern effects: then what I have to doWill want true colour; tears perchance for blood.
Do you see nothing there?
Nor did you nothing hear?
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!Exit Ghost
Ecstasy!My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,And makes as healthful music: it is not madnessThat I have utter'd: bring me to the test,And I the matter will re-word; which madnessWould gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,Lay not that mattering unction to your soul,That not your trespass, but my madness speaks:It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,Whilst rank corruption, mining all within,Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven;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 pursy timesVirtue itself of vice must pardon beg,Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.
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 habits devil, is angel yet in this,That to the use of actions fair and goodHe likewise gives a frock or livery,That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night,And that shall lend a kind of easinessTo the next abstinence: the next more easy;For use almost can change the stamp of nature,And either ... the devil, or throw him outWith wondrous potency. Once more, good night:And when you are desirous to be bless'd,I'll blessing beg of you. For this same lord,Pointing to POLONIUSI do repent: but heaven hath pleased 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 wellThe death I gave him. So, again, good night.I must be cruel, only to be kind:Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.One word more, good lady.
Not this, by no means, that I bid you do:Let the bloat 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 paddling 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 gib,Such dear concernings hide? who would do so?No, in despite of sense and secrecy,Unpeg the basket on the house's top.Let the birds fly, and, like the famous ape,To try conclusions, in the basket creep,And break your own neck down.
I must to England; you know that?
There's letters seal'd: and my two schoolfellows,Whom I will trust as I will adders fang'd,They bear the mandate; they must sweep my way,And marshal me to knavery. Let it work;For 'tis the sport to have the engineerHoist with his own petard: and 't shall go hardBut I will delve one yard below their mines,And blow them at the moon: O, 'tis most sweet,When in one line two crafts directly meet.This man shall set me packing:I'll lug the guts into the neighbour room.Mother, good night. Indeed this counsellorIs 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.Exeunt severally; HAMLET dragging in POLONIUS
What noise? who calls on Hamlet?O, here they come.Enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN
Compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis kin.
Do not believe it.
That I can keep your counsel and not mine own.Besides, to be demanded of a sponge! whatreplication should be made by the son of a king?
Ay, sir, that soaks up the king's countenance, hisrewards, his authorities. But such officers do theking best service in the end: he keeps them, likean ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, tobe last swallowed: when he needs what you havegleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, youshall be dry again.
I am glad of it: a knavish speech sleeps in afoolish ear.
The body is with the king, but the king is not withthe body. The king is a thing--
Of nothing: bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after.Exeunt
Not where he eats, but where he is eaten: a certainconvocation of politic worms are e'en at him. Yourworm is your only emperor for diet: we fat allcreatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves formaggots: your fat king and your lean beggar is butvariable service, two dishes, but to one table:that's the end.
A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of aking, and cat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.
Nothing but to show you how a king may go aprogress through the guts of a beggar.
In heaven; send hither to see: if your messengerfind him not there, seek him i' the other placeyourself. But indeed, if you find him not withinthis month, you shall nose him as you go up thestairs into the lobby.
He will stay till ye come.Exeunt Attendants
I see a cherub that sees them. But, come; forEngland! Farewell, dear mother.
My mother: father and mother is man and wife; manand wife is one flesh; and so, my mother. Come, for England!Exit
Good sir, whose powers are these?
How purposed, sir, I pray you?
Who commands them, sir?
Goes it against the main of Poland, sir,Or for some frontier?
Why, then the Polack never will defend it.
Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducatsWill not debate the question of this straw:This is the imposthume of much wealth and peace,That inward breaks, and shows no cause withoutWhy the man dies. I humbly thank you, sir.
I'll be with you straight go a little before.Exeunt all except HAMLETHow all occasions do inform against me,And spur my dull revenge! What is a man,If his chief good and market of his timeBe but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.Sure, he that made us with such large discourse,Looking before and after, gave us notThat capability and god-like reasonTo fust in us unused. Now, whether it beBestial oblivion, or some craven scrupleOf thinking too precisely on the event,A thought which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdomAnd ever three parts coward, I do not knowWhy yet I live to say 'This thing's to do;'Sith I have cause and will and strength and meansTo do't. Examples gross as earth exhort me:Witness this army of such mass and chargeLed by a delicate and tender prince,Whose spirit with divine ambition puff'dMakes mouths at the invisible event,Exposing what is mortal and unsureTo all that fortune, death and danger dare,Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be greatIs not to stir without great argument,But greatly to find quarrel in a strawWhen 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 seeThe imminent death of twenty thousand men,That, for a fantasy and trick of fame,Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plotWhereon the numbers cannot try the cause,Which is not tomb enough and continentTo hide the slain? O, from this time forth,My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!Exit
Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that hesings at grave-making?
'Tis e'en so: the hand of little employment haththe daintier sense.
That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once:how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it wereCain's jaw-bone, that did the first murder! Itmight be the pate of a politician, which this assnow o'er-reaches; one that would circumvent God,might it not?
Or of a courtier; which could say 'Good morrow,sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord?' This mightbe my lord such-a-one, that praised my lordsuch-a-one's horse, when he meant to beg it; might it not?
Why, e'en so: and now my Lady Worm's; chapless, andknocked about the mazzard with a sexton's spade:here's fine revolution, an we had the trick tosee't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding,but to play at loggats with 'em? mine ache to think on't.
There's another: why may not that be the skull of alawyer? Where be his quiddities now, his quillets,his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? why does hesuffer this rude knave now to knock him about thesconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him ofhis action of battery? Hum! This fellow might bein's time a great buyer of land, with his statutes,his recognizances, his fines, his double vouchers,his recoveries: is this the fine of his fines, andthe recovery of his recoveries, to have his finepate full of fine dirt? will his vouchers vouch himno more of his purchases, and double ones too, thanthe length and breadth of a pair of indentures? Thevery conveyances of his lands will hardly lie inthis box; and must the inheritor himself have no more, ha?
Is not parchment made of sheepskins?
They are sheep and calves which seek out assurancein that. I will speak to this fellow. Whosegrave's this, sirrah?
I think it be thine, indeed; for thou liest in't.
'Thou dost lie in't, to be in't and say it is thine:'tis for the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest.
What man dost thou dig it for?
What woman, then?
Who is to be buried in't?
How absolute the knave is! we must speak by thecard, or equivocation will undo us. By the Lord,Horatio, these three years I have taken a note ofit; the age is grown so picked that the toe of thepeasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, hegaffs his kibe. How long hast thou been agrave-maker?
How long is that since?
Ay, marry, why was he sent into England?
How came he mad?
Upon what ground?
How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he rot?
Why he more than another?
Whose was it?
Nay, I know not.
Let me see.Takes the skullAlas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellowof infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hathborne me on his back a thousand times; and now, howabhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims atit. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I knownot how oft. Where be your gibes now? yourgambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment,that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not onenow, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, lether paint an inch thick, to this favour she mustcome; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tellme one thing.
Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i'the earth?
And smelt so? pah!Puts down the skull
To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why maynot imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander,till he find it stopping a bung-hole?
No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither withmodesty enough, and likelihood to lead it: asthus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried,Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; ofearth we make loam; and why of that loam, whereto hewas converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel?Imperious Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay,Might stop a hole to keep the wind away:O, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,Should patch a wall to expel the winter flaw!But soft! but soft! aside: here comes the king.Enter Priest,&c. in procession; the Corpse ofOPHELIA, LAERTES and Mourners following; KINGCLAUDIUS, QUEEN GERTRUDE, their trains,&cThe queen, the courtiers: who is this they follow?And with such maimed rites? This doth betokenThe corse they follow did with desperate handFordo its own life: 'twas of some estate.Couch we awhile, and mark.Retiring with HORATIO
That is Laertes,A very noble youth: mark.
What, the fair Ophelia!
AdvancingWhat is he whose griefBears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrowConjures the wandering stars, and makes them standLike wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,Hamlet the Dane.Leaps into the grave
Thou pray'st not well.I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat;For, though I am not splenitive and rash,Yet have I something in me dangerous,Which let thy wiseness fear: hold off thy hand.
Why I will fight with him upon this themeUntil my eyelids will no longer wag.
I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothersCould not, with all their quantity of love,Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?
'Swounds, show me what thou'lt do:Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't fast? woo't tear thyself?Woo't drink up eisel? eat a crocodile?I'll do't. Dost thou come here to whine?To outface me with leaping in her grave?Be buried quick with her, and so will I:And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throwMillions of acres on us, till our ground,Singeing his pate against the burning zone,Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou'lt mouth,I'll rant as well as thou.
Hear you, sir;What is the reason that you use me thus?I loved you ever: but it is no matter;Let Hercules himself do what he may,The cat will mew and dog will have his day.Exit
So much for this, sir: now shall you see the other;You do remember all the circumstance?
Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting,That would not let me sleep: methought I layWorse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly,And praised be rashness for it, let us know,Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,When our deep plots do pall: and that should teach usThere's a divinity that shapes our ends,Rough-hew them how we will,--
Up from my cabin,My sea-gown scarf'd about me, in the darkGroped I to find out them; had my desire.Finger'd their packet, and in fine withdrewTo mine own room again; making so bold,My fears forgetting manners, to unsealTheir grand commission; where I found, Horatio,--O royal knavery!--an exact command,Larded with many several sorts of reasonsImporting Denmark's health and England's too,With, ho! such bugs and goblins in my life,That, on the supervise, no leisure bated,No, not to stay the grinding of the axe,My head should be struck off.
Here's the commission: read it at more leisure.But wilt thou hear me how I did proceed?
Being thus be-netted round with villanies,--Ere I could make a prologue to my brains,They had begun the play--I sat me down,Devised a new commission, wrote it fair:I once did hold it, as our statists do,A baseness to write fair and labour'd muchHow to forget that learning, but, sir, nowIt did me yeoman's service: wilt thou knowThe effect of what I wrote?
An earnest conjuration from the king,As England was his faithful tributary,As love between them like the palm might flourish,As peace should stiff her wheaten garland wearAnd stand a comma 'tween their amities,And many such-like 'As'es of great charge,That, on the view and knowing of these contents,Without debatement further, more or less,He should the bearers put to sudden death,Not shriving-time allow'd.
Why, even in that was heaven ordinant.I had my father's signet in my purse,Which was the model of that Danish seal;Folded the writ up in form of the other,Subscribed it, gave't the impression, placed it safely,The changeling never known. Now, the next dayWas our sea-fight; and what to this was sequentThou know'st already.
Why, man, they did make love to this employment;They are not near my conscience; their defeatDoes by their own insinuation grow:'Tis dangerous when the baser nature comesBetween the pass and fell incensed pointsOf mighty opposites.
Does it not, think'st thee, stand me now upon--He that hath kill'd my king and whored my mother,Popp'd in between the 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 this arm? and is't not to be damn'd,To let this canker of our nature comeIn further evil?
It will be short: the interim is 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 myself;For, by the image of my cause, I seeThe portraiture of his: I'll court his favours.But, sure, the bravery of his grief did put meInto a towering passion.
I humbly thank you, sir. Dost know this water-fly?
Thy state is the more gracious; for 'tis a vice toknow him. He hath much land, and fertile: let abeast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand atthe king's mess: 'tis a chough; but, as I say,spacious in the possession of dirt.
I will receive it, sir, with all diligence ofspirit. Put your bonnet to his right use; 'tis for the head.
No, believe me, 'tis very cold; the wind isnortherly.
But yet methinks it is very sultry and hot for mycomplexion.
I beseech you, remember--HAMLET moves him to put on his hat
Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you;though, I know, to divide him inventorially woulddizzy the arithmetic of memory, and yet but yawneither, in respect of his quick sail. But, in theverity of extolment, I take him to be a soul ofgreat article; and his infusion of such dearth andrareness, as, to make true diction of him, hissemblable is his mirror; and who else would tracehim, his umbrage, nothing more.
The concernancy, sir? why do we wrap the gentlemanin our more rawer breath?
What imports the nomination of this gentleman?
Of him, sir.
I would you did, sir; yet, in faith, if you did,it would not much approve me. Well, sir?
I dare not confess that, lest I should compare withhim in excellence; but, to know a man well, were toknow himself.
What's his weapon?
That's two of his weapons: but, well.
What call you the carriages?
The phrase would be more german to the matter, if wecould carry cannon by our sides: I would it mightbe hangers till then. But, on: six Barbary horsesagainst six French swords, their assigns, and threeliberal-conceited carriages; that's the French betagainst the Danish. Why is this 'imponed,' as you call it?
How if I answer 'no'?
Sir, I will walk here in the hall: if it please hismajesty, 'tis the breathing time of day with me; letthe foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and theking hold his purpose, I will win for him an I can;if not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits.
To this effect, sir; after what flourish your nature will.
Yours, yours.Exit OSRICHe does well to commend it himself; there are notongues else for's turn.
He did comply with his dug, before he sucked it.Thus has he--and many more of the same bevy that Iknow the dressy age dotes on--only got the tune ofthe time and outward habit of encounter; a kind ofyesty collection, which carries them through andthrough the most fond and winnowed opinions; and dobut blow them to their trial, the bubbles are out.Enter a Lord
I am constant to my purpose; they follow the king'spleasure: if his fitness speaks, mine is ready; nowor whensoever, provided I be so able as now.
In happy time.
She well instructs me.Exit Lord
I do not think so: since he went into France, Ihave been in continual practise: I shall win at theodds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all's hereabout my heart: but it is no matter.
It is but foolery; but it is such a kind ofgain-giving, as would perhaps trouble a woman.
Not a whit, we defy augury: there's a specialprovidence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now,'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will benow; if it be not now, yet it will come: thereadiness is all: since no man has aught of what heleaves, what is't to leave betimes?Enter KING CLAUDIUS, QUEEN GERTRUDE, LAERTES,Lords, OSRIC, and Attendants with foils,&c
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'dWith sore distraction. What I have done,That might your nature, honour and exceptionRoughly 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 does wrong Laertes,Then Hamlet does 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 purposed evilFree me so far in your most generous thoughts,That I have shot mine arrow o'er the house,And hurt my brother.
I embrace it freely;And will this brother's wager frankly play.Give us the foils. Come on.
I'll be your foil, Laertes: in mine ignoranceYour skill shall, like a star i' the darkest night,Stick fiery off indeed.
No, by this hand.
Very well, my lordYour grace hath laid the odds o' the weaker side.
This likes me well. These foils have all a length?They prepare to play
Come on, sir.
I'll play this bout first; set it by awhile. Come.They playAnother hit; what say you?
I dare not drink yet, madam; by and by.
Come, for the third, Laertes: you but dally;I pray you, pass with your best violence;I am afeard you make a wanton of me.
Nay, come, again.QUEEN GERTRUDE falls
How does the queen?
O villany! Ho! let the door be lock'd:Treachery! Seek it out.
The point!--envenom'd too!Then, venom, to thy work.Stabs KING CLAUDIUS
Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane,Drink off this potion. Is thy union here?Follow my mother.KING CLAUDIUS dies
Heaven 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 to this act,Had I but time--as this fell sergeant, death,Is strict in his arrest--O, I could tell you--But let it be. Horatio, I am dead;Thou livest; report me and my cause arightTo the unsatisfied.
As thou'rt a man,Give me the cup: let go; by heaven, I'll have't.O good Horatio, what a wounded name,Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me!If thou didst ever hold me in thy heartAbsent thee from felicity awhile,And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,To tell my story.March afar off, and shot withinWhat warlike noise is this?
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 prophesy the election lightsOn Fortinbras: he has my dying voice;So tell him, with the occurrents, more and less,Which have solicited. The rest is silence.Dies
Hamlet har i alt 359 replikker i stykket