Enter
Claudius King of Denmark, Gertrude the Queen, Hamlet, Polonius,
Laertes, Voltemand,
Cornelius,
Lords and Attendant.
KING.
Though
yet of Hamlet our dear brother’s death
The
memory be green, and that it us befitted
To
bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom
To
be contracted in one brow of woe;
Yet
so far hath discretion fought with nature
That
we with wisest sorrow think on him,
Together
with remembrance of ourselves.
Therefore
our sometime sister, now our queen,
Th’imperial
jointress to this warlike state,
Have
we, as ’twere with a defeated joy,
With
one auspicious and one dropping eye,
With
mirth in funeral, and with dirge in marriage,
In
equal scale weighing delight and dole,
Taken
to wife; nor have we herein barr’d
Your
better wisdoms, which have freely gone
With
this affair along. For all, our thanks.
Now
follows, that you know young Fortinbras,
Holding
a weak supposal of our worth,
Or
thinking by our late dear brother’s death
Our
state to be disjoint and out of frame,
Colleagued
with this dream of his advantage,
He
hath not fail’d to pester us with message,
Importing
the surrender of those lands
Lost
by his father, with all bonds of law,
To
our most valiant brother. So much for him.
Now
for ourself 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 gait herein; in that the levies,
The
lists, and full proportions are all made
Out
of his subject: and we here dispatch
You,
good Cornelius, and you, Voltemand,
For
bearers of this greeting to old Norway,
Giving
to you no further personal power
To
business with the King, more than the scope
Of
these dilated articles allow.
Farewell;
and let your haste commend your duty.
CORNELIUS
and VOLTEMAND.
In
that, and all things, will we show our duty.
KING.
We
doubt it nothing: heartily farewell.
[ Exeunt Voltemand and Cornelius . ]
And
now, Laertes, what’s the news with you?
You
told us of some suit. What is’t, Laertes?
You
cannot speak of reason to the Dane,
And
lose your voice. What wouldst thou beg, Laertes,
That
shall not be my offer, not thy asking?
The
head is not more native to the heart,
The
hand more instrumental to the mouth,
Than
is the throne of Denmark to thy father.
What
wouldst thou have, Laertes?
LAERTES.
Dread
my lord,
Your leave
and favour to return to France,
From
whence though willingly I came to Denmark
To
show my duty in your coronation;
Yet
now I must confess, that duty done,
My
thoughts and wishes bend again toward France,
And
bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.
KING.
Have
you your father’s leave? What says Polonius?
POLONIUS.
He
hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave
By
laboursome petition; and at 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—
HAMLET.
[
Aside.
]
A little more than kin, and less than kind.
KING.
How
is it that the clouds still hang on you?
HAMLET.
Not
so, my lord, I am too much i’ the sun.
QUEEN.
Good
Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off,
And
let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do
not for ever with thy vailed lids
Seek
for thy noble father in the dust.
Thou
know’st ’tis common, all that lives must die,
Passing
through nature to eternity.
HAMLET.
Ay,
madam, it is common.
QUEEN.
If
it be,
Why seems it
so particular with thee?
HAMLET.
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, shows 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.
KING.
’Tis
sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,
To
give these mourning duties to your father;
But
you must know, your father lost a father,
That
father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound
In
filial obligation, for some term
To
do obsequious sorrow. But to persevere
In
obstinate condolement is a course
Of
impious stubbornness. ’Tis unmanly grief,
It
shows a will most incorrect to heaven,
A
heart unfortified, a mind impatient,
An
understanding simple and unschool’d;
For
what we know must be, and is as common
As
any the most vulgar thing to sense,
Why
should we in our peevish opposition
Take
it to heart? Fie, ’tis a fault to heaven,
A
fault against the dead, a fault to nature,
To
reason most absurd, whose common theme
Is
death of fathers, and who still hath cried,
From
the first corse till he that died today,
‘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 toward you. For your intent
In
going back to school in 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
pray thee stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.
HAMLET.
I
shall in all my best obey you, madam.
KING.
Why,
’tis a loving and a fair reply.
Be
as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come;
This
gentle and unforc’d accord of Hamlet
Sits
smiling to my heart; in grace whereof,
No
jocund health that Denmark drinks today
But
the great cannon to the clouds shall tell,
And
the King’s rouse the heaven shall bruit again,
Re-speaking
earthly thunder. Come away.
[ Exeunt all but Hamlet . ]
HAMLET.
O
that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw,
and resolve itself into a dew!
Or
that the Everlasting had not fix’d
His
canon ’gainst self-slaughter. O God! O 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 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 mother,
That
he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit
her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must
I remember? Why, she would hang on him
As
if increase of appetite had grown
By
what it fed on; and yet, within a month—
Let
me not think on’t—Frailty, thy name is woman!
A
little month, or ere those shoes were old
With
which she followed 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 mine uncle,
My
father’s brother; but 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 galled eyes,
She
married. O most wicked speed, to post
With
such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It
is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But
break my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
Enter Horatio, Marcellus and Barnardo.
HORATIO.
Hail
to your lordship!
HAMLET.
I
am glad to see you well:
Horatio,
or I do forget myself.
HORATIO.
The
same, my lord,
And
your poor servant ever.
HAMLET.
Sir,
my good friend;
I’ll
change that name with you:
And
what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?—
Marcellus?
MARCELLUS.
My
good lord.
HAMLET.
I
am very glad to see you.—Good even, sir.—
But
what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?
HORATIO.
A
truant disposition, good my lord.
HAMLET.
I
would not hear your enemy say so;
Nor
shall you do my ear that violence,
To
make it truster of your own report
Against
yourself. I know you are no truant.
But
what is your affair in Elsinore?
We’ll
teach you to drink deep ere you depart.
HORATIO.
My
lord, I came to see your father’s funeral.
HAMLET.
I
prithee do not mock me, fellow-student.
I
think it was to see my mother’s wedding.
HORATIO.
Indeed,
my lord, it follow’d hard upon.
HAMLET.
Thrift,
thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak’d meats
Did
coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
Would
I had met my dearest foe in heaven
Or
ever I had seen that day, Horatio.
My
father,—methinks I see my father.
HORATIO.
Where,
my lord?
HAMLET.
In
my mind’s eye, Horatio.
HORATIO.
I
saw him once; he was a goodly king.
HAMLET.
He
was a man, take him for all in all,
I
shall not look upon his like again.
HORATIO.
My
lord, I think I saw him yesternight.
HAMLET.
Saw?
Who?
HORATIO.
My
lord, the King your father.
HAMLET.
The
King my father!
HORATIO.
Season
your admiration for a while
With
an attent ear, till I may deliver
Upon
the witness of these gentlemen
This
marvel to you.
HAMLET.
For
God’s love let me hear.
HORATIO.
Two
nights together had these gentlemen,
Marcellus
and Barnardo, on their watch
In
the dead waste and middle of the night,
Been
thus encounter’d. A figure like your father,
Armed
at point exactly, cap-à-pie,
Appears
before them, and with solemn march
Goes
slow and stately by them: thrice he walk’d
By
their oppress’d and fear-surprised 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.
HAMLET.
But
where was this?
MARCELLUS.
My
lord, upon the platform where we watch.
HAMLET.
Did
you not speak to it?
HORATIO.
My
lord, I did;
But
answer made it none: yet once methought
It
lifted up it head, and did address
Itself
to motion, like as it would speak.
But
even then the morning cock crew loud,
And
at the sound it shrunk in haste away,
And
vanish’d from our sight.
HAMLET.
’Tis
very strange.
HORATIO.
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.
HAMLET.
Indeed,
indeed, sirs, but this troubles me.
Hold
you the watch tonight?
Mar.
and BARNARDO.
We do,
my lord.
HAMLET.
Arm’d,
say you?
Both.
Arm’d,
my lord.
HAMLET.
From
top to toe?
BOTH.
My
lord, from head to foot.
HAMLET.
Then
saw you not his face?
HORATIO.
O
yes, my lord, he wore his beaver up.
HAMLET.
What,
look’d he frowningly?
HORATIO.
A
countenance more in sorrow than in anger.
HAMLET.
Pale,
or red?
HORATIO.
Nay,
very pale.
HAMLET.
And
fix’d his eyes upon you?
HORATIO.
Most
constantly.
HAMLET.
I
would I had been there.
HORATIO.
It
would have much amaz’d you.
HAMLET.
Very
like, very like. Stay’d it long?
HORATIO.
While
one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.
MARCELLUS
and BARNARDO.
Longer,
longer.
HORATIO.
Not
when I saw’t.
HAMLET.
His
beard was grizzled, no?
HORATIO.
It
was, as I have seen it in his life,
A
sable silver’d.
HAMLET.
I
will watch tonight;
Perchance
’twill walk again.
HORATIO.
I
warrant you it will.
HAMLET.
If
it assume my noble father’s person,
I’ll
speak to it, though hell itself should gape
And
bid me hold my peace. I pray you all,
If
you have hitherto conceal’d this sight,
Let
it be tenable in your silence still;
And
whatsoever else shall hap tonight,
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.
HAMLET.
Your
loves, as mine to you: farewell.
[ Exeunt Horatio, Marcellus and Barnardo . ]
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,
Though
all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.
[ Exit. ]
Enter Laertes and Ophelia.
LAERTES.
My
necessaries are embark’d. Farewell.
And,
sister, as the winds give benefit
And
convoy is assistant, do not sleep,
But
let me hear from you.
OPHELIA.
Do
you doubt that?
LAERTES.
For
Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour,
Hold
it a fashion and a toy in blood;
A
violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward,
not permanent, sweet, not lasting;
The
perfume and suppliance of a minute;
No
more.
OPHELIA.
No
more but so?
LAERTES.
Think
it no more.
For
nature crescent does not grow alone
In
thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes,
The
inward service of the mind and soul
Grows
wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now,
And
now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch
The
virtue of his 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 unvalu’d persons do,
Carve
for himself; for on his choice depends
The
sanctity and health of this whole state;
And
therefore must his choice be circumscrib’d
Unto
the voice and yielding of that body
Whereof
he is the head. Then if he says he loves you,
It
fits your wisdom so far to believe it
As
he in his particular 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 you in 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
itself scopes 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 itself rebels, though none else near.
OPHELIA.
I
shall th’effect of this good lesson keep
As
watchman to my heart. But good my brother,
Do
not as some ungracious pastors do,
Show
me the steep and thorny way to heaven;
Whilst
like a puff’d and reckless libertine
Himself
the primrose path of dalliance treads,
And
recks not his own rede.
LAERTES.
O,
fear me not.
I stay
too long. But here my father comes.
Enter Polonius.
A
double blessing is a double grace;
Occasion
smiles upon a second leave.
POLONIUS.
Yet
here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame.
The
wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,
And
you are stay’d for. There, my blessing with you.
[ Laying his hand on Laertes’s head. ]
And
these few precepts in thy memory
Look
thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor
any unproportion’d thought his act.
Be
thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
Those
friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple
them unto thy soul with hoops of steel;
But
do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of
each new-hatch’d, unfledg’d comrade. Beware
Of
entrance to a quarrel; but being in,
Bear’t
that th’opposed may beware of thee.
Give
every man thine ear, but few thy voice:
Take
each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly
thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But
not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy:
For
the apparel oft proclaims the man;
And
they in France of the best rank and station
Are
of a most select and generous chief in that.
Neither
a borrower nor a lender be:
For
loan oft loses both itself and friend;
And
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.
Farewell:
my blessing season this in thee.
LAERTES.
Most
humbly do I take my leave, my lord.
POLONIUS.
The
time invites you; go, your servants tend.
LAERTES.
Farewell,
Ophelia, and remember well
What
I have said to you.
OPHELIA.
’Tis
in my memory lock’d,
And
you yourself shall keep the key of it.
LAERTES.
Farewell.
[ Exit. ]
POLONIUS.
What
is’t, Ophelia, he hath said to you?
OPHELIA.
So
please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.
POLONIUS.
Marry,
well bethought:
’Tis
told me he hath very oft of late
Given
private time to you; and you yourself
Have
of your audience been most free and bounteous.
If
it be so,—as so ’tis put on me,
And
that in way of caution,—I must tell you
You
do not understand yourself so clearly
As
it behoves my daughter and your honour.
What
is between you? Give me up the truth.
OPHELIA.
He
hath, my lord, of late made many tenders
Of
his affection to me.
POLONIUS.
Affection!
Pooh! You speak like a green girl,
Unsifted
in such perilous circumstance.
Do
you believe his tenders, as you call them?
OPHELIA.
I
do not know, my lord, what I should think.
POLONIUS.
Marry,
I’ll teach you; think yourself a baby;
That
you have ta’en these tenders for true pay,
Which
are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly;
Or,—not
to crack the wind of the poor phrase,
Roaming
it thus,—you’ll tender me a fool.
OPHELIA.
My
lord, he hath importun’d me with love
In
honourable fashion.
POLONIUS.
Ay,
fashion you may call it; go to, go to.
OPHELIA.
And
hath given countenance to his speech, my lord,
With
almost all the holy vows of heaven.
POLONIUS.
Ay,
springes to catch woodcocks. I do know,
When
the blood burns, how prodigal the soul
Lends
the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter,
Giving
more light than heat, extinct in both,
Even
in their promise, as it is a-making,
You
must not take for fire. From this time
Be
something scanter of your maiden presence;
Set
your entreatments at a higher rate
Than
a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet,
Believe
so much in him that he is young;
And
with a larger tether may he walk
Than
may be given you. In few, Ophelia,
Do
not believe his vows; for they are brokers,
Not
of that dye which their investments show,
But
mere implorators of unholy suits,
Breathing
like sanctified and pious bawds,
The
better to beguile. This is for all.
I
would not, in plain terms, from this time forth
Have
you so slander any moment leisure
As
to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.
Look
to’t, I charge you; come your ways.
OPHELIA.
I
shall obey, my lord.
[ Exeunt. ]
Enter Hamlet, Horatio and Marcellus.
HAMLET.
The
air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.
HORATIO.
It
is a nipping and an eager air.
HAMLET.
What
hour now?
HORATIO.
I
think it lacks of twelve.
MARCELLUS.
No,
it is struck.
HORATIO.
Indeed?
I heard it not. It then draws near the season
Wherein
the spirit held his wont to walk.
[ A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off within. ]
What does this mean, my lord?
HAMLET.
The
King doth wake tonight and takes his rouse,
Keeps
wassail, and the swaggering upspring reels;
And
as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,
The
kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out
The
triumph of his pledge.
HORATIO.
Is
it a custom?
HAMLET.
Ay
marry is’t;
And 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.
This
heavy-headed revel east and west
Makes
us traduc’d and tax’d of other nations:
They
clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase
Soil
our addition; and indeed it takes
From
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
their o’ergrowth of some complexion,
Oft
breaking down the pales and forts of reason;
Or
by some habit, that too much o’erleavens
The
form of plausive manners;—that these men,
Carrying,
I say, the stamp of one defect,
Being
Nature’s livery or Fortune’s star,—
His
virtues else,—be they as pure as grace,
As
infinite as man may undergo,
Shall
in the general censure take corruption
From
that particular fault. The dram of evil
Doth
all the noble substance often doubt
To
his own scandal.
HORATIO.
Look,
my lord, it comes!
Enter Ghost.
HAMLET.
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
com’st in such a questionable shape
That
I will speak to thee. I’ll call thee Hamlet,
King,
father, royal Dane. O, answer me!
Let
me not burst in ignorance; but tell
Why
thy canoniz’d bones, hearsed in death,
Have
burst their cerements; why the sepulchre,
Wherein
we saw thee quietly inurn’d,
Hath
op’d his ponderous and marble jaws
To
cast thee up again! What may this mean,
That
thou, dead corse, again in complete 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 . ]
HORATIO.
It
beckons you to go away with it,
As
if it some impartment did desire
To
you alone.
MARCELLUS.
Look
with what courteous action
It
waves you to a more removed ground.
But
do not go with it.
HORATIO.
No,
by no means.
HAMLET.
It
will not speak; then will I follow it.
HORATIO.
Do
not, my lord.
HAMLET.
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 itself?
It
waves me forth again. I’ll follow it.
HORATIO.
What
if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord,
Or
to the dreadful summit of the cliff
That
beetles o’er his base into the sea,
And
there assume some other horrible form
Which
might deprive your sovereignty of reason,
And
draw you into madness? Think of it.
The
very place puts toys of desperation,
Without
more motive, into every brain
That
looks so many fadoms to the sea
And
hears it roar beneath.
HAMLET.
It
waves me still.
Go
on, I’ll follow thee.
MARCELLUS.
You
shall not go, my lord.
HAMLET.
Hold
off your hands.
HORATIO.
Be
rul’d; you shall not go.
HAMLET.
My
fate cries out,
And
makes each petty artery in this body
As
hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.
[Ghost beckons. ]
Still am I call’d. Unhand me, gentlemen.
[ Breaking free from them. ]
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 . ]
HORATIO.
He
waxes desperate with imagination.
MARCELLUS.
Let’s
follow; ’tis not fit thus to obey him.
HORATIO.
Have
after. To what issue will this come?
MARCELLUS.
Something
is rotten in the state of Denmark.
HORATIO.
Heaven
will direct it.
MARCELLUS.
Nay,
let’s follow him.
[ Exeunt. ]
Enter Ghost and Hamlet.
HAMLET.
Whither
wilt thou lead me? Speak, I’ll go no further.
GHOST.
Mark
me.
HAMLET.
I
will.
GHOST.
My
hour is almost come,
When
I to sulph’rous and tormenting flames
Must
render up myself.
HAMLET.
Alas,
poor ghost!
GHOST.
Pity
me not, but lend thy serious hearing
To
what I shall unfold.
HAMLET.
Speak,
I am bound to hear.
GHOST.
So
art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.
HAMLET.
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
knotted and combined locks to part,
And
each particular hair to stand on end
Like
quills upon the fretful porcupine.
But
this eternal blazon must not be
To
ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list!
If
thou didst ever thy dear father love—
HAMLET.
O
God!
GHOST.
Revenge
his foul and most unnatural murder.
HAMLET.
Murder!
GHOST.
Murder
most foul, as in the best it is;
But
this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
HAMLET.
Haste
me to know’t, 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 the fat weed
That
rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,
Wouldst
thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear.
’Tis
given out that, sleeping in my orchard,
A
serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark
Is
by a forged process of my death
Rankly
abus’d; but know, thou noble youth,
The
serpent that did sting thy father’s life
Now
wears his crown.
HAMLET.
O
my prophetic soul!
Mine
uncle!
GHOST.
Ay,
that incestuous, that adulterate beast,
With
witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,—
O
wicked wit, and gifts, that have the power
So
to seduce!—won to his shameful lust
The
will of my most seeming-virtuous queen.
O
Hamlet, what a falling off was there,
From
me, whose love was of that dignity
That
it went hand in hand even with the vow
I
made to her in marriage; and to decline
Upon
a wretch whose natural gifts were poor
To
those of mine. But virtue, as it never will be mov’d,
Though
lewdness court it in a shape of heaven;
So
lust, though to a radiant angel link’d,
Will
sate itself in a celestial bed
And
prey on garbage.
But
soft! methinks I scent the morning air;
Brief
let me be. Sleeping within my orchard,
My
custom always of the afternoon,
Upon
my secure hour thy uncle stole
With
juice of cursed hebenon in a vial,
And
in the porches of my ears did pour
The
leperous distilment, whose effect
Holds
such an enmity with blood of man
That
swift as quicksilver it courses through
The
natural gates and alleys of the body;
And
with a sudden vigour it doth posset
And
curd, like eager droppings into milk,
The
thin and wholesome blood. So did it mine;
And
a most instant tetter 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 dispatch’d:
Cut
off even in the blossoms of my sin,
Unhous’led,
disappointed, unanel’d;
No
reckoning made, but sent to my account
With
all my imperfections on my head.
O
horrible! O 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 aught; leave her to heaven,
And
to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To
prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once!
The
glow-worm shows the matin to be near,
And
’gins to pale his uneffectual fire.
Adieu,
adieu, adieu. Hamlet, remember me.
[ Exit. ]
HAMLET.
O
all you host of heaven! O earth! What else?
And
shall I couple hell? O, fie! Hold, my heart;
And
you, my sinews, grow not instant old,
But
bear me stiffly up. Remember thee?
Ay,
thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat
In
this distracted globe. Remember thee?
Yea,
from the table of my memory
I’ll
wipe away all trivial fond records,
All
saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,
That
youth and observation copied there;
And
thy commandment all alone shall live
Within
the book and volume of my brain,
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 am sure it may be so in Denmark.
[ Writing. ]
So,
uncle, there you are. Now to my word;
It
is ‘Adieu, adieu, remember me.’
I
have sworn’t.
HORATIO
and MARCELLUS.
[
Within.
]
My lord, my lord.
MARCELLUS.
[
Within.
]
Lord Hamlet.
HORATIO.
[
Within.
]
Heaven secure him.
HAMLET.
So
be it!
MARCELLUS.
[
Within.
]
Illo, ho, ho, my lord!
HAMLET.
Hillo,
ho, ho, boy! Come, bird, come.
Enter Horatio and Marcellus.
MARCELLUS.
How
is’t, my noble lord?
HORATIO.
What
news, my lord?
HAMLET.
O,
wonderful!
HORATIO.
Good
my lord, tell it.
HAMLET.
No,
you’ll reveal it.
HORATIO.
Not
I, my lord, by heaven.
MARCELLUS.
Nor
I, my lord.
HAMLET.
How
say you then, would heart of man once think it?—
But
you’ll be secret?
HORATIO
and MARCELLUS.
Ay,
by heaven, my lord.
HAMLET.
There’s
ne’er a villain dwelling in all Denmark
But
he’s an arrant knave.
HORATIO.
There
needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave
To
tell us this.
HAMLET.
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 desires shall point you,—
For
every man hath business and desire,
Such
as it is;—and for my own poor part,
Look
you, I’ll go pray.
HORATIO.
These
are but wild and whirling words, my lord.
HAMLET.
I’m
sorry they offend you, heartily;
Yes
faith, heartily.
HORATIO.
There’s
no offence, my lord.
HAMLET.
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.
HORATIO.
What
is’t, my lord? We will.
HAMLET.
Never
make known what you have seen tonight.
HORATIO
and MARCELLUS.
My
lord, we will not.
HAMLET.
Nay,
but swear’t.
HORATIO.
In
faith, my lord, not I.
MARCELLUS.
Nor
I, my lord, in faith.
HAMLET.
Upon
my sword.
MARCELLUS.
We
have sworn, my lord, already.
HAMLET.
Indeed,
upon my sword, indeed.
GHOST.
[
Cries
under the stage.
]
Swear.
HAMLET.
Ha,
ha boy, say’st thou so? Art thou there, truepenny?
Come
on, you hear this fellow in the cellarage.
Consent
to swear.
HORATIO.
Propose
the oath, my lord.
HAMLET.
Never
to speak of this that you have seen.
Swear
by my sword.
GHOST.
[
Beneath.
]
Swear.
HAMLET.
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.
GHOST.
[
Beneath.
]
Swear.
HAMLET.
Well
said, old mole! Canst work i’ th’earth so fast?
A
worthy pioner! Once more remove, good friends.
HORATIO.
O
day and night, but this is wondrous strange.
HAMLET.
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 meet
To
put an antic disposition on—
That
you, at such times seeing me, never shall,
With
arms encumber’d 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 they might’,
Or
such ambiguous giving out, to note
That
you know aught of me:—this not to do.
So
grace and mercy at your most need help you,
Swear.
GHOST.
[
Beneath.
]
Swear.
HAMLET.
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. O cursed spite,
That
ever I was born to set it right.
Nay,
come, let’s go together.
[ Exeunt. ]