天航文創TW

Chapter Twenty

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To obviate the danger of this threat being fulfilled, Mr. Linton commissioned me to take the boy home early, on Catherine’s pony; and, said he—“As we shall now have no influence over his destiny, good or bad, you must say nothing of where he is gone to my daughter: she cannot associate with him hereafter, and it is better for her to remain in ignorance of his proximity; lest she should be restless, and anxious to visit the Heights. Merely tell her his father sent for him suddenly, and he has been obliged to leave us.”

Linton was very reluctant to be roused from his bed at five o’clock, and astonished to be informed that he must prepare for further travelling; but I softened off the matter by stating that he was going to spend some time with his father, Mr. Heathcliff, who wished to see him so much, he did not like to defer the pleasure till he should recover from his late journey.

“My father!” he cried, in strange perplexity. “Mamma never told me I had a father. Where does he live? I’d rather stay with uncle.”

“He lives a little distance from the Grange,” I replied; “just beyond those hills: not so far, but you may walk over here when you get hearty. And you should be glad to go home, and to see him. You must try to love him, as you did your mother, and then he will love you.”

“But why have I not heard of him before?” asked Linton. “Why didn’t mamma and he live together, as other people do?”

“He had business to keep him in the north,” I answered, “and your mother’s health required her to reside in the south.”

“And why didn’t mamma speak to me about him?” persevered the child. “She often talked of uncle, and I learnt to love him long ago. How am I to love papa? I don’t know him.”

“Oh, all children love their parents,” I said. “Your mother, perhaps, thought you would want to be with him if she mentioned him often to you. Let us make haste. An early ride on such a beautiful morning is much preferable to an hour’s more sleep.”

“Is she to go with us,” he demanded, “the little girl I saw yesterday?”

“Not now,” replied I.

“Is uncle?” he continued.

“No, I shall be your companion there,” I said.

Linton sank back on his pillow and fell into a brown study.

“I won’t go without uncle,” he cried at length: “I can’t tell where you mean to take me.”

I attempted to persuade him of the naughtiness of showing reluctance to meet his father; still he obstinately resisted any progress towards dressing, and I had to call for my master’s assistance in coaxing him out of bed. The poor thing was finally got off, with several delusive assurances that his absence should be short: that Mr. Edgar and Cathy would visit him, and other promises, equally ill-founded, which I invented and reiterated at intervals throughout the way. The pure heather-scented air, the bright sunshine, and the gentle canter of Minny, relieved his despondency after a while. He began to put questions concerning his new home, and its inhabitants, with greater interest and liveliness.

“Is Wuthering Heights as pleasant a place as Thrushcross Grange?” he inquired, turning to take a last glance into the valley, whence a light mist mounted and formed a fleecy cloud on the skirts of the blue.

“It is not so buried in trees,” I replied, “and it is not quite so large, but you can see the country beautifully all round; and the air is healthier for you—fresher and drier. You will, perhaps, think the building old and dark at first; though it is a respectable house: the next best in the neighbourhood. And you will have such nice rambles on the moors. Hareton Earnshaw—that is, Miss Cathy’s other cousin, and so yours in a manner—will show you all the sweetest spots; and you can bring a book in fine weather, and make a green hollow your study; and, now and then, your uncle may join you in a walk: he does, frequently, walk out on the hills.”

“And what is my father like?” he asked. “Is he as young and handsome as uncle?”

“He’s as young,” said I; “but he has black hair and eyes, and looks sterner; and he is taller and bigger altogether. He’ll not seem to you so gentle and kind at first, perhaps, because it is not his way: still, mind you, be frank and cordial with him; and naturally he’ll be fonder of you than any uncle, for you are his own.”

“Black hair and eyes!” mused Linton. “I can’t fancy him. Then I am not like him, am I?”

“Not much,” I answered: not a morsel, I thought, surveying with regret the white complexion and slim frame of my companion, and his large languid eyes—his mother’s eyes, save that, unless a morbid touchiness kindled them a moment, they had not a vestige of her sparkling spirit.

“How strange that he should never come to see mamma and me!” he murmured. “Has he ever seen me? If he has, I must have been a baby. I remember not a single thing about him!”

“Why, Master Linton,” said I, “three hundred miles is a great distance; and ten years seem very different in length to a grown-up person compared with what they do to you. It is probable Mr. Heathcliff proposed going from summer to summer, but never found a convenient opportunity; and now it is too late. Don’t trouble him with questions on the subject: it will disturb him, for no good.”

The boy was fully occupied with his own cogitations for the remainder of the ride, till we halted before the farmhouse garden-gate. I watched to catch his impressions in his countenance. He surveyed the carved front and low-browed lattices, the straggling gooseberry-bushes and crooked firs, with solemn intentness, and then shook his head: his private feelings entirely disapproved of the exterior of his new abode. But he had sense to postpone complaining: there might be compensation within. Before he dismounted, I went and opened the door. It was half-past six; the family had just finished breakfast: the servant was clearing and wiping down the table. Joseph stood by his master’s chair telling some tale concerning a lame horse; and Hareton was preparing for the hayfield.

“Hallo, Nelly!” said Mr. Heathcliff, when he saw me. “I feared I should have to come down and fetch my property myself. You’ve brought it, have you? Let us see what we can make of it.”

He got up and strode to the door: Hareton and Joseph followed in gaping curiosity. Poor Linton ran a frightened eye over the faces of the three.

“Sure-ly,” said Joseph after a grave inspection, “he’s swopped wi’ ye, Maister, an’ yon’s his lass!”

Heathcliff, having stared his son into an ague of confusion, uttered a scornful laugh.

“God! what a beauty! what a lovely, charming thing!” he exclaimed. “Hav’n’t they reared it on snails and sour milk, Nelly? Oh, damn my soul! but that’s worse than I expected—and the devil knows I was not sanguine!”

I bid the trembling and bewildered child get down, and enter. He did not thoroughly comprehend the meaning of his father’s speech, or whether it were intended for him: indeed, he was not yet certain that the grim, sneering stranger was his father. But he clung to me with growing trepidation; and on Mr. Heathcliff’s taking a seat and bidding him “come hither” he hid his face on my shoulder and wept.

“Tut, tut!” said Heathcliff, stretching out a hand and dragging him roughly between his knees, and then holding up his head by the chin. “None of that nonsense! We’re not going to hurt thee, Linton—isn’t that thy name? Thou art thy mother’s child, entirely! Where is my share in thee, puling chicken?”

He took off the boy’s cap and pushed back his thick flaxen curls, felt his slender arms and his small fingers; during which examination Linton ceased crying, and lifted his great blue eyes to inspect the inspector.

“Do you know me?” asked Heathcliff, having satisfied himself that the limbs were all equally frail and feeble.

“No,” said Linton, with a gaze of vacant fear.

“You’ve heard of me, I daresay?”

“No,” he replied again.

“No! What a shame of your mother, never to waken your filial regard for me! You are my son, then, I’ll tell you; and your mother was a wicked slut to leave you in ignorance of the sort of father you possessed. Now, don’t wince, and colour up! Though it is something to see you have not white blood. Be a good lad; and I’ll do for you. Nelly, if you be tired you may sit down; if not, get home again. I guess you’ll report what you hear and see to the cipher at the Grange; and this thing won’t be settled while you linger about it.”

“Well,” replied I, “I hope you’ll be kind to the boy, Mr. Heathcliff, or you’ll not keep him long; and he’s all you have akin in the wide world, that you will ever know—remember.”

“I’ll be very kind to him, you needn’t fear,” he said, laughing. “Only nobody else must be kind to him: I’m jealous of monopolising his affection. And, to begin my kindness, Joseph, bring the lad some breakfast. Hareton, you infernal calf, begone to your work. Yes, Nell,” he added, when they had departed, “my son is prospective owner of your place, and I should not wish him to die till I was certain of being his successor. Besides, he’s mine, and I want the triumph of seeing my descendant fairly lord of their estates; my child hiring their children to till their fathers’ lands for wages. That is the sole consideration which can make me endure the whelp: I despise him for himself, and hate him for the memories he revives! But that consideration is sufficient: he’s as safe with me, and shall be tended as carefully as your master tends his own. I have a room upstairs, furnished for him in handsome style; I’ve engaged a tutor, also, to come three times a week, from twenty miles’ distance, to teach him what he pleases to learn. I’ve ordered Hareton to obey him: and in fact I’ve arranged everything with a view to preserve the superior and the gentleman in him, above his associates. I do regret, however, that he so little deserves the trouble: if I wished any blessing in the world, it was to find him a worthy object of pride; and I’m bitterly disappointed with the whey-faced, whining wretch!”

While he was speaking, Joseph returned bearing a basin of milk-porridge, and placed it before Linton: who stirred round the homely mess with a look of aversion, and affirmed he could not eat it. I saw the old man-servant shared largely in his master’s scorn of the child; though he was compelled to retain the sentiment in his heart, because Heathcliff plainly meant his underlings to hold him in honour.

“Cannot ate it?” repeated he, peering in Linton’s face, and subduing his voice to a whisper, for fear of being overheard. “But Maister Hareton nivir ate naught else, when he wer a little ’un; and what wer gooid eneugh for him’s gooid eneugh for ye, I’s rayther think!”

“I sha’n’t eat it!” answered Linton, snappishly. “Take it away.”

Joseph snatched up the food indignantly, and brought it to us.

“Is there aught ails th’ victuals?” he asked, thrusting the tray under Heathcliff’s nose.

“What should ail them?” he said.

“Wah!” answered Joseph, “yon dainty chap says he cannut ate ’em. But I guess it’s raight! His mother wer just soa—we wer a’most too mucky to sow t’ corn for makking her breead.”

“Don’t mention his mother to me,” said the master, angrily. “Get him something that he can eat, that’s all. What is his usual food, Nelly?”

I suggested boiled milk or tea; and the housekeeper received instructions to prepare some. Come, I reflected, his father’s selfishness may contribute to his comfort. He perceives his delicate constitution, and the necessity of treating him tolerably. I’ll console Mr. Edgar by acquainting him with the turn Heathcliff’s humour has taken. Having no excuse for lingering longer, I slipped out, while Linton was engaged in timidly rebuffing the advances of a friendly sheep-dog. But he was too much on the alert to be cheated: as I closed the door, I heard a cry, and a frantic repetition of the words—

“Don’t leave me! I’ll not stay here! I’ll not stay here!”

Then the latch was raised and fell: they did not suffer him to come forth. I mounted Minny, and urged her to a trot; and so my brief guardianship ended.

Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen

Chapter One

The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the old Gentleman’s days were comfortably spent. His attachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence.

By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present lady, three daughters. The son, a steady respectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his wealth. To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent of what might arise to them from their father’s inheriting that property, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the remaining moiety of his first wife’s fortune was also secured to her child, and he had only a life-interest in it.

The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew;—but he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife and daughters than for himself or his son;—but to his son, and his son’s son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received from his niece and her daughters. He meant not to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece.

Mr. Dashwood’s disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate improvement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was his only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for his widow and daughters.

His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr. Dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.

Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make them comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might prudently be in his power to do for them.

He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been made still more respectable than he was:—he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature of himself;—more narrow-minded and selfish.

When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand pounds a-piece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income, besides the remaining half of his own mother’s fortune, warmed his heart, and made him feel capable of generosity. “Yes, he would give them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would be enough to make them completely easy. Three thousand pounds! he could spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience.” He thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did not repent.

No sooner was his father’s funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood, without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute her right to come; the house was her husband’s from the moment of his father’s decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood’s situation, with only common feelings, must have been highly unpleasing;—but in her mind there was a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of immovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with any of her husband’s family; but she had had no opportunity, till the present, of showing them with how little attention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion required it.

So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three children determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach with their brother.

Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led to imprudence. She had an excellent heart;—her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.

Marianne’s abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor’s. She was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable, interesting: she was everything but prudent. The resemblance between her and her mother was strikingly great.

Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister’s sensibility; but by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished. They encouraged each other now in the violence of their affliction. The agony of grief which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was created again and again. They gave themselves up wholly to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in future. Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could struggle, she could exert herself. She could consult with her brother, could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with proper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.

Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne’s romance, without having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal her sisters at a more advanced period of life.

Scene Three.—ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

***

King and Queen, on a dais, Laertes (R.), Lords (R.), Ladies (L.), Osric (R.) and Attendants, with Foils, &c., discovered (R.H.); Tables (R. and L.)—Flourish of Trumpets.

Enter Hamlet and Horatio (L.H.)

King. Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me.

Ham. (offering his hand to Laertes)

Give me your pardon, sir: I have done you wrong;

But pardon it, as you are a gentleman.

Let my disclaiming from a purpos’d evil

Free me so far in your most generous thoughts,

That I have shot my arrow o’er the house,

And hurt my brother.

Laer. (R.)

I am satisfied in nature,

Whose motive, in this case, should stir me most

To my revenge.

I do receive your offer’d love like love,

And will not wrong it.

Ham.

I embrace it freely:

And will this brother’s wager frankly play.

Give us the foils.

Laer.

Come, one for me.

Ham. I’ll be your foil, Laertes: in mine ignorance

Your skill shall, like a star i’the darkest night,

Stick fiery off indeed.

Laer.

You mock me, sir.

Ham. No, by this hand.

King. Give them the foils, young Osric. Cousin Hamlet,

You know the wager?

Ham.

Very well, my lord;

Your grace hath laid the odds o’the weaker side.

King. I do not fear it; I have seen you both:

But since he’s better’d, we have therefore odds.

Laer. This is too heavy, let me see another.

Ham. This likes me well. These foils have all a length?

Osr. Ay, my good lord.

King. Set me the stoups of wine upon that table.—

[Pages exeunt R. and L.]

If Hamlet give the first or second hit,

Or quit in answer to the third exchange,

Let all the battlements their ordnance fire;

The king shall drink to Hamlet’s better breath;

And in the cup an union shall he throw,

Richer than that which four successive kings

In Denmark’s crown have worn.

Pages return with wine.

Give me the cup;

And let the kettle to the trumpet speak,

The trumpet to the cannoneer without,

The cannons to the heavens, the heaven to earth,

Now the king drinks to Hamlet.—Come, begin;

And you, the judges, bear a wary eye.

Ham. Come on, sir.

Laer.

Come, my lord.

[They play.]

Ham.

One.

Laer.

No.

Ham.

Judgment.

Osr. A hit, a very palpable hit.

Laer.

Well:—again.

King. Stay; give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine;

[Drops poison into the goblet.]

Here’s to thy health.

[Pretends to drink.]

[Trumpets sound; and cannon shot off within.]

Give him the cup.

Ham. I’ll play this bout first; set it by awhile.

[Page places the goblet on table, L.]

Come.

Another hit; What say you?

[They play.]

Laer. A touch, a touch, I do confess.

King. Our son shall win.

Queen. The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.

Ham. Good madam!——

[Trumpets sound.]

King.

Gertrude, do not drink.

Queen. I have, my lord; I pray you, pardon me.

King. It is the poison’d cup; it is too late.

[Aside.]

Laer. I’ll hit him now

And yet it is almost against my conscience.

[Aside.]

Ham. Come, for the third, Laertes: You do but dally;

I pray you, pass with your best violence;

I am afeard you make a wanton of me.

Laer. Say you so? come on.

[They play.]

[Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuffling they change Rapiers, and Hamlet wounds Laertes.]

King.

Part them; they are incensed.

Ham. Nay, come, again.

[The Queen falls back in her chair.]

Osr. (Supporting Laertes, R.) Look to the queen there, ho!

Hor. (Supporting Hamlet, L.) How is it, my lord?

Osr. How is’t, Laertes?

Laer. Why, as a woodcock to my own springe, Osric;

I am justly killed with mine own treachery.

Ham. How does the queen?

King.

She swoons to see them bleed.

Queen. No, no, the drink, the drink,—O, my dear Hamlet,—

The drink, the drink! I am poison’d.

[The Queen is conveyed off the stage by her attendant Ladies, in a dying state, L.H.U.E.]

Ham. O villainy! Ho! let the doors be lock’d:

Treachery! seek it out.

[Laertes falls.]

Laer. (R.) It is here, Hamlet: Hamlet, thou art slain;

No medicine in the world can do thee good,

In thee there is not half an hour’s life;

The treacherous instrument is in thy hand,

Unbated and envenom’d: the foul practice

Hath turn’d itself on me; lo, here I lie,

Never to rise again: Thy mother’s poison’d:

I can no more: the king, the king’s to blame.

Ham. The point

Envenom’d too! Then, venom, to thy work.

Here, thou incestuous, murd’rous, damnèd Dane,

Follow my mother.

[Stabs the King, who is borne away by his attendants, mortally wounded, R.H.U.E.]

Laer.

He is justly serv’d;

Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet:

Mine and my father’s death come not upon thee,

Nor thine on me!

[Dies.]

Ham. (C.) Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee.

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,

Report me and my cause aright

To the unsatisfied.

Hor. (L.)

Never believe it:

I am more an antique Roman than a Dane:

Here’s yet some liquor left.

[Seizing the goblet on table, L.]

Ham.

As thou’rt a man,—

Give me the cup: let go; by heaven, I’ll have it.

[Dashes the goblet away.]

O good Horatio, what a wounded name,

Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me!

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,

Absènt thee from felicity awhile,

And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,

To tell my story.—

O, I die, Horatio;

The potent poison quite o’er-crows my spirit;

The rest is silence.

[Dies, C., Osric on his R., and Horatio on his L.]

Dead March afar off.

Curtain slowly descends.

The End

Scene Two.—HALL IN THE CASTLE.

***

Enter Hamlet and Horatio (R.H.)

Ham. But I am very sorry, good Horatio,

That to Laertes I forgot myself;

For by the image of my cause, I see

The portraiture of his.

Hor.

Peace! who comes here?

Enter Osric (L.H.)

Osr. Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark.

Ham. (C.) I humbly thank you, sir.—Dost know this water-fly?

Hor. (R.) No, my good lord.

Ham. Thy state is the more gracious; for ‘tis a vice to know him.

Osr. (L.) Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you from his majesty.

Ham. I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit.Your bonnet to his right use; ‘tis for the head.

Osr. I thank your lordship, ‘tis very hot.

Ham. No, believe me, ‘tis very cold; the wind is northerly.

Osr. It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed.

Ham. But yet, methinks it is very sultry and hot,for my complexion,—

Osr. Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry, as ‘twere,—I cannot tell how.—But, my lord, his majesty bade me signify to you, that he has laid a great wager on your head: Sir, this is the matter,—

Ham. I beseech you, remember——

[Hamlet moves him to put on his hat.]

Osr. Nay, good my lord; for mine ease, in good faith.Sir, here is newly come to court Laertes; believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent differences, of very soft society and great showing: Indeed, to speak feelingly of him,he is the card or calendar of gentry, for you shall find in him the continent of what part a gentleman would see.

Ham. What imports the nomination of this gentleman?

Osr. Of Laertes?

Ham. Of him, sir.

Osr. Sir, you are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is—

Ham. I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in excellence; but, to know a man well, were to know himself.

Osr. I mean, sir, for his weapon.

Ham. What is his weapon?

Osr. Rapier and dagger.

Ham. That’s two of his weapons: but, well.

Osr. The king, sir, hath wagered with him six Barbary horses: against the which he has imponed, as I take it, six French rapiers and poignards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, or so: Three of the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal conceit.

Ham. What call you the carriages?

Osr. The carriages, sir, are the hangers.

Ham. The phrase would be more german to the matter, if we could carry cannon by our sides.

Osr. The king, sir, hath laid, that in a dozen passes between yourself and him, he shall not exceed you three hits; and it would come to immediate trial, if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer.

Ham. How if I answer no?

Osr. I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial.

Ham. Sir, it is the breathing time of day with me; let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the king hold his purpose, I will win for him if I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits.

Osr. Shall I deliver you so?

Ham. To this effect, sir; after what flourish your nature will.

Osr. I commend my duty to your lordship.

[Exit, L.H.]

Hor. (R.) You will lose this wager, my lord.

Ham. (C.) I do not think so; since he went into France, I have been in continual practice; I shall win at the odds.But thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart: but it is no matter.

Hor. Nay, good my lord.

Ham. It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gain-giving, as would, perhaps, trouble a woman.

Hor. If your mind dislike any thing, obey it: I will forestall their repair hither, and say, you are not fit.

Ham. Not a whit, we defy augury: there is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.

[Exeunt, L.H.]

ACT Five.

Scene One.—A CHURCH YARD.

***

Enter two Clowns, with spades, &c. (L.H.U.E.)

1st Clo. (R.) Is she to be buried in christian burial that wilfully seeks her own salvation?

2nd Clo. (L.) I tell thee she is; therefore make her grave straight: the crowner hath set on her, and finds it christian burial.

1st Clo. How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence?

2nd Clo. Why, ‘tis found so.

1st Clo. It must be se offendendo; it cannot be else. For here lies the point: If I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an act hath three branches; it is, to act, to do, and to perform: argal, she drowned herself wittingly.

2nd Clo. Nay, but hear you, goodman delver.

1st Clo. Give me leave. Here lies the water; good: here stands the man; good: If the man go to this water, and drown himself, it is, will he, nill he, he goes, mark you that; but if the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not himself: argal, he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.

2nd Clo. But is this law?

1st Clo. Ay, marry is’t; crowner’s-quest law.

2nd Clo. Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out of christian burial.

1st Clo. Why, there thou say’st: And the more pity that great folks should have countenance in this world to drown or hang themselves, more than their even christian. Come, my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers: they hold up Adam’s profession.

2nd Clo. Was he a gentleman?

1st Clo. He was the first that ever bore arms. I’ll put another question to thee: if thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself——

2nd Clo. Go to.

1st Clo. What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?

2nd Clo. The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.

1st Clo. I like thy wit well, in good faith: the gallows does well; But how does it well? it does well to those that do ill: now, thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church: argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To’t again, come.

2nd Clo. Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?

1st Clo. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.

2nd Clo. Marry, now I can tell.

1st Clo. To’t.

2nd Clo. Mass, I cannot tell.

1st Clo. Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating; and, when you are asked this question next, say, a grave-maker, the houses that he makes, last till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan, and fetch me a stoup of liquor.

[Exit 2nd Clown, L.H.U.E.]

Enter Hamlet and Horatio (L.H.U.E.)

First Clown digs and sings.

In youth, when I did love, did love,

Methought, it was very sweet,

To contract, O, the time, for, ah, my behove

O, methought, there was nothing meet.

Ham. (Behind the grave.) Has this fellow no feeling of his business, he sings at grave-making?

Hor. (On Hamlet’s R.) Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.

Ham. ‘Tis e’en so: the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.

1st Clo.

But age, with his stealing steps,

Hath clawed me in his clutch,

And hath shipped me into the land,

As if I had never been such.

[Throws up a skull.]

Ham. That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: How the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain’s jaw-bone, that did the first murder! This might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o’er-reaches; one that would circumvent Heaven, might it not?

Hor. It might, my lord.

[Gravedigger throws up bones.]

Ham. Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at loggats with them? mine ache to think on’t.

1st Clo.

[Sings.]

A pick-axe and a spade, a spade,

For and a shrouding sheet:

O, a pit of clay for to be made

For such a guest is meet.

[Throws up a skull.]

Ham. There’s another: Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? Why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? I will speak to this fellow.—Whose grave’s this, sirrah?

1st Clo. Mine, sir.—

[Sings.]

O, a pit of clay for to be made

For such a guest is meet.

Ham. (R. of grave.) I think it be thine, indeed; for thou liest in’t.

1st Clo. You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore it is not yours: for my part, I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine.

Ham. 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.

1st. Clo. ‘Tis a quick lie, sir; ‘twill away again, from me to you.

Ham. What man dost thou dig it for?

1st Clo. For no man, sir.

Ham. What woman, then?

1st Clo. For none, neither.

Ham. Who is to be buried in’t?

1st Clo. One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she’s dead.

Ham. How absolute the knave is! we must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us, [To Horatio, R.] How long hast thou been a grave-maker?

1st Clo. Of all the days i’the year, I came to’t that day that our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.

Ham. How long’s that since?

1st Clo. Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that: It was the very day that young Hamlet was born, he that is mad, and sent into England.

Ham. Ay, marry, why was he sent into England?

1st Clo. Why, because he was mad: he shall recover his wits there; or, if he do not, ‘tis no great matter there.

Ham. Why?

1st Clo. ‘Twill not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.

Ham. How came he mad?

1st Clo. Very strangely, they say.

Ham. How strangely?

1st Clo. ‘Faith, e’en with losing his wits.

Ham. Upon what ground?

1st Clo. Why, here in Denmark: I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years.

Ham. How long will a man lie i’the earth ere he rot?

1st Clo. ‘Faith, if he be not rotten before he die, he will last you some eight year or nine year: a tanner will last you nine year.

Ham. Why he more than another?

1st Clo. Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with his trade, that he will keep out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of your ill-begotten dead body. Here’s a skull now, hath lain in the earth three-and-twenty years.

Ham. Whose was it?

1st Clo. O, a mad fellow’s it was: Whose do you think it was?

Ham. Nay, I know not.

1st Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! he poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick’s skull, the king’s jester.

Ham. This?

[Takes the skull.]

1st Clo. E’en that.

Ham. Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing.

Hor. What’s that, my lord?

Ham. Dost thou think Alexander look’d o’this fashion i’the earth?

Hor. E’en so.

Ham. And smelt so? pah!

[Gives the skull to Horatio, who returns it to the grave-digger.]

Hor. E’en so, my lord.

Ham. To what base uses may we return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till it find it stopping a bung-hole?

Hor. ‘Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so.

Ham. No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it: As thus; Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; And why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer barrel?

Imperial Cæsar, dead and turn’d to clay,

Might stop a hole to keep the wind away:

O, that the earth, which kept the world in awe,

Should patch a wall to expel the winter’s flaw!

But soft! but soft! aside: Here comes the king,

The queen, the courtiers: Who is this they follow?

And with such maimèd rites? This doth betoken

The corse they follow did with desperate hand

Fordo its own life: ‘Twas of some estate.

Couch we awhile, and mark.

[Retiring with Horatio, R.H.]

Enter Priests, &c., in procession; the corpse of Ophelia, Laertes and Mourners following; King, Queen, their Trains, &c.

Laer. (L. of the grave.) What ceremony else?

Ham. (R.)

That is Laertes,

A very noble youth.

1st Priest. (R. of the grave.) Her obsequies have been as far enlarg’d

As we have warranty: Her death was doubtful;

And, but that great command o’ersways the order,

She should in ground unsanctified have lodged

Till the last trumpet; for charitable prayers,

Shards, flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her:

Yet here she is allowed her virgin crants,

Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home

Of bell and burial.

Laer. Must there no more be done?

1st Priest.

No more be done:

We should profane the service of the dead

To sing a requiem, and such rest to her

As to peace-parted souls.

Laer. O, from her fair and unpolluted flesh

May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest,

A ministering angel shall my sister be,

When thou liest howling.

Ham.

What, the fair Ophelia!

Queen. (Behind the grave, C. with the King.)

Sweets to the sweet: Farewell!

[Scattering flowers.]

I hop’d thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife;

I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet maid,

And not have strew’d thy grave.

Laer.

O, treble woe

Fall ten times treble on that cursed head,

Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense

Depriv’d thee of!—Hold off the earth a while,

Till I have caught her once more in mine arms:

[Leaps into the grave.]

Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead,

Till of this flat a mountain you have made,

To o’ertop old Pelion, or the skyish head

Of blue Olympus.

Ham. (Advancing.) What is he whose grief

Bears such an emphasis?—whose phrase of sorrow

Conjures the wand’ring stars, and makes them stand

Like wonder-wounded hearers?—this is I,

Hamlet the Dane.

Laer. (L., leaping from the grave.) The devil take thy soul!

[Grappling with him.]

Ham. (R.C.) Thou pray’st not well.

I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat;

For, though I am not splenetive and rash,

Yet have I in me something dangerous,

Which let thy wisdom fear: Hold off thy hand!

King. Pluck them asunder.

Queen. (C.)

Hamlet, Hamlet!

Ham. (R.C.) Why, I will fight with him upon this theme

Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

Queen. O my son, what theme?

Ham. I lov’d Ophelia: forty thousand brothers

Could not, with all their quantity of love,

Make up my sum.—What wilt thou do for her?

Queen. O, he is mad, Laertes.

Ham. Come, show me what thou’lt do:

Wou’lt weep? wou’lt fight? wou’lt fast? wou’lt tear thyself?

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 throw

Millions 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.

Queen.

This is mere madness:

And thus a while the fit will work on him;

Anon, as patient as the female dove,

When that her golden couplets are disclos’d,

His silence will sit drooping.

Ham.

Hear you, sir;

What is the reason that you use me thus?

I lov’d you ever: But it is no matter;

Let Hercules himself do what he may,

The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

[Exit, R.H.]

King. (C.) I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.

[Exit Horatio, R.H.]

Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son,

[Exit Queen, attended, R.H.]

Strengthen your patience in our last night’s speech;

[To Laertes.]

We’ll put the matter to the present push.—

This grave shall have a living monument:

An hour of quiet shortly shall we see;

Till then, in patience our proceeding be.

[The characters group round the grave.]

ACT Four.

Scene One.—A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

***

Enter King and Queen, from (R.H.) centre.

King. There’s matter in these sighs, these profound heaves:

You must translate: ‘tis fit we understand them.

How does Hamlet?

Queen. Mad as the sea and wind, when both contend

Which is the mightier: In his lawless fit,

Behind the arras hearing something stir,

Whips out his rapier, cries A rat, a rat!

And, in this brainish apprehension, kills

The unseen good old man.

King.

O heavy deed!

It had been so with us, had we been there:

Where is he gone?

Queen. To draw apart the body he hath kill’d.

King. The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch,

But we will ship him hence: and this vile deed

We must, with all our majesty and skill,

Both countenance and excuse.—Ho, Guildenstern!

Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (L.H.)

Friends both, go join you with some further aid:

Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain,

And from his mother’s closet hath he dragg’d him:

Go seek him out; speak fair, and bring the body

Into the chapel.

[Rosencrantz and Guildenstern cross to R.]

I pray you, haste in this.

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, R.H.]

Go, Gertrude, we’ll call up our wisest friends;

And let them know, both what we mean to do,

And what’s untimely done.

[Exit Queen, R.C.]

How dangerous is it that this man goes loose!

Yet must not we put the strong law on him:

He’s lov’d of the distracted multitude,

Who like not in their judgment, but their eyes;

And where ‘tis so, the offender’s scourge is weigh’d,

But never the offence.

Enter Rosencrantz (R.)

How now! what hath befallen?

Ros. Where the dead body is bestowed, my lord,

We cannot get from him.

King.

But where is he?

Ros. Without, my lord; guarded, to know your pleasure.

King. Bring him before us.

Ros. Ho, Guildenstern! bring in my lord.

Enter Hamlet, Guildenstern, and Attendants (R.H.)

King. (C.) Now, Hamlet, where’s Polonius?

Ham. (R.) At supper.

King. At supper? Where?

Ham. Not where he eats, but where he is eaten: a certain convocation of politick worms4 are e’en at him.

King. Where’s Polonius?

Ham. In Heaven; send thither to see: if your messenger find him not there, seek him i’the other place yourself. But, indeed, if you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby.

King. Go seek him there. [To Guildenstern.]

Ham. He will stay till you come.

[Exit Guildenstern, R.H.]

King. Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety,

Must send thee hence:

Therefore prepare thyself;

The bark is ready, and the wind at help,

For England.

Ham.

For England!

King.

Ay, Hamlet.

Ham.

Good.

King. So is it, if thou knew’st our purposes.

Ham. I see a cherub that sees them. But, come; for England!—Farewell, dear mother.

King. Thy loving father, Hamlet.

Ham. My mother: Father and mother is man and wife; man and wife is one flesh; and so, my mother. Come, for England.

[Exit, R.H.]

King. Follow him at foot; tempt him with speed aboard;

Away! for everything is seal’d and done.

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Attendants, R.H.]

And, England, if my love thou hold’st at aught,

Thou may’st not coldly set

Our sovereign process; which imports at full,

By letters conjuring to that effect,

The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England;

For thou must cure me: ‘Till I know ‘tis done,

Howe’er my haps, my joys will ne’er begin.

[Exit King, L.H.]

Enter Queen and Horatio R. centre.

Queen. —— I will not speak with her.

Hor. She is importunate; indeed, distract:

‘Twere good she were spoken with; for she may strew

Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.

Queen. Let her come in.

[Exit Horatio, R.C.]

Re-enter Horatio, with Ophelia R. centre.

Oph. Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?

Queen. How now, Ophelia!

Oph. (C.)

[Singing.]

How should I your true love know

From another one?

By his cockle hat and staff,

And his sandal shoon.

Queen. (L.C.) Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?

Oph. Say you? nay, pray you, mark.

[Sings.]

He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone;

At his head a grass-green turf,

At his heels a stone.

Enter the King (L.H.)

Queen. Nay, but, Ophelia,——

Oph.

Pray you, mark.

[Sings.]

White his shroud as the mountain-snow,

Larded all with sweet flowers;

Which bewept to the grave did go

With true-love showers.

King. How do you, pretty lady?

Oph. Well, Heaven ‘ield you! (Crosses to the King.)

They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

King. Conceit upon her father.

Oph. Pray, you, let us have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this:

To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day,

All in the morning betime,

And I, a maid at your window,

To be your Valentine:

King. Pretty Ophelia!

Oph. Indeed, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t:

Then up he rose, and don’d his clothes,

And dupp’d the chamber door;

Let in the maid, that out a maid

Never departed more.

[Crosses to R.H.]

King. (L.) How long hath she been thus?

Oph. (R.) I hope all will be well. We must be patient: but I cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him i’the cold ground. My brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night.

[Exit, R.C.]

King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.

[Exit Horatio, through centre R.]

O! this is the poison of deep grief; it springs

All from her father’s death.

O, Gertrude, Gertrude,

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,

But in battalions!

Enter Marcellus R. centre.

King. What is the matter?

Mar.

Save yourself, my lord:

The young Laertes, in a riotous head,

O’erbears your officers. The rabble call him lord;

They cry, Choose we: Laertes shall be king!

Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds,

Laertes shall be king, Laertes king!

[Noise within, R.C.]

Enter Laertes, armed; Danes following R. centre.

Laer. Where is this king?—Sirs, stand you all without.

Dan. No, let’s come in.

Laer.

I pray you, give me leave.

Dan. We will, we will.

[They retire without, R.H.]

Laer. O, thou vile king,

Give me my father.

Queen (Interposing.) Calmly, good Laertes.

Laer. (R.) That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard;

Cries cuckold to my father; brands the harlot

Even here, between the chaste unsmirched brow

Of my true mother.

King. (L.) What is the cause, Laertes,

That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?

Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person:

There’s such divinity doth hedge a king,

That treason can but peep to what it would,

Acts little of his will.

Let him go, Gertrude.

[Queen obeys.]

Laer. Where is my father?

King.

Dead.

Queen.

But not by him.

King. Let him demand his fill.

Laer. How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with:

To hell, allegiance! To this point I stand,

That both the worlds I give to negligence,

Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d

Most throughly for my father.

King.

Who shall stay you!

Laer. My will, not all the world’s:

And, for my means, I’ll husband them so well,

They shall go far with little.

King.

Good Laertes,

That I am guiltless of your father’s death,

And am most sensible in grief for it,

It shall as level to your judgment ‘pear

As day does to your eye.

Hor. (Without.) Oh, poor Ophelia!

King. Let her come in.

Enter Ophelia (R.C.), fantastically dressed with Straws and Flowers.

Laer. (Goes up L.C.) O rose of May!

Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!

O heavens! is’t possible, a young maid’s wits

Should be as mortal as an old man’s life?

Oph. (R.C.)

They bore him barefac’d on the bier;

And on his grave rain many a tear,—

Fare you well, my dove!

Laer. (Coming down R) Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge,

It could not move thus.

Oph. You must sing, Down-a-down, an you call him a-down-a. O, how well the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master’s daughter.

Laer. This nothing’s more than matter.

Oph. There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance;pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.

Laer. A document in madness; thoughts and remembrance fitted.

Oph. There’s fennel for you, (crosses to the King on L.H.) and columbines: there’s rue for you; (turns to the Queen, who is R.C.) and here’s some for me:—we may call it herb of grace o’Sundays:—you may wear your rue with a difference.—There’s a daisy:—I would give you some violets,but they withered all when my father died:—They say he made a good end,——

For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy—

Laer. (R.) Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favour and to prettiness.

Oph.

And will he not come again?

And will he not come again?

No, no, he is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

He never will come again.

His beard was white as snow,

All flaxen was his poll:

He is gone, he is gone,

And we cast away moan:

Heaven ‘a mercy on his soul!

And of all christian souls, I pray Heaven. Heaven be wi’ you.

[Exit Ophelia, R.C., Queen following.]

Laer. Do you see this, O Heaven?

King. (L.C.) Laertes, I must commune with your grief,

Or you deny me right.

Be you content to lend your patience to us,

And we shall jointly labour with your soul

To give it due content.

Laer. (R.C.)

Let this be so;

His means of death, his obscure funeral,—

No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o’er his bones,

No noble rite nor formal ostentation,—

Cry to be heard, as ‘twere from heaven to earth,

That I must call’t in question.

King.

So you shall;

And where the offence is let the great axe fall.

How now! what news?

Enter Bernardo (R.H.C.)

Ber. (C.)

Letters, my lord, from Hamlet:

This to your majesty; this to the Queen.

King. From Hamlet! who brought them?

Ber. Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not.

King.

Laertes, you shall hear them.—

Leave us.

[Exit, L.H.C.]

[Reads.] High and mighty, You shall know I am set naked on your kingdom. To morrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes: when I shall, first asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasion of my sudden and more strange return.

Hamlet.

What should this mean? Are all the rest come back?

Or is it some abuse, and no such thing?

Laer. (R.) Know you the hand?

King. (L.) ‘Tis Hamlet’s character: Naked,—

And in a postscript here, he says, alone.

Can you advise me?

Laer. I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come;

It warms the very sickness in my heart,

That I shall live and tell him to his teeth,

Thus diddest thou.

King.

If it be so, Laertes,

Will you be rul’d by me?

Laer.

Ay, my lord;

So you will not o’er-rule me to a peace.

King. To thine own peace.

Some two months since,

Here was a gentleman of Normandy,

He made confession of you;

And gave you such a masterly report,

For art and exercise in your defence,

And for your rapier most especially,

That he cried out, ‘twould be a sight indeed,

If one could match you: this report of his

Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy,

That he could nothing do but wish and beg

Your sudden coming o’er, to play with you.

Now, out of this,——

Laer.

What out of this, my lord?

King. Laertes, was your father dear to you?

Or are you like the painting of a sorrow,

A face without a heart?

Laer.

Why ask you this?

King. Hamlet return’d shall know you are come home:

We’ll put on those shall praise your excellence,

And set a double varnish on the fame

The Frenchman gave you; bring you, in fine, together,

And wager o’er your heads; he, being remiss,

Most generous, and free from all contriving,

Will not peruse the foils: so that, with ease,

Or with a little shuffling, you may choose

A sword unbated, and, in a pass of practice,

Requite him for your father.

Laer.

I will do’t:

And, for the purpose, I’ll anoint my sword.

I bought an unction of a mountebank,

So mortal, that but dip a knife in it,

Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare,

Collected from all simples that have virtue

Under the moon, can save the thing from death

That is but scratch’d withal: I’ll touch my point

With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly,

It may be death.

King. (L.) Let’s further think of this;

We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings,

When in your motion you are hot and dry,

(As make your bouts more violent to that end,)

And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepared him

A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping,

If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck,

Our purpose may hold there. But stay, what noise?

Enter Queen (R.C.)

Queen. (C.) One woe doth tread upon another’s heel,

So fast they follow: Your sister’s drown’d, Laertes.

Laer. (R.) Drown’d! O, where?

Queen. There is a willow grows aslant a brook,

That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;

Therewith fantastick garlands did she make

Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples;

There, on the pendent boughs her cornet weeds

Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;

When down her weedy trophies, and herself,

Fell in the weeping brook.

Laer. I forbid my tears: But yet

It is our trick: nature her custom holds,

Let shame say what it will: when these are gone,

The woman will be out.

Adieu, my lord:

I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze,

But that this folly drowns it.

[Exeunt. C.]

END OF ACT FOURTH. 

Scene Two.—A ROOM IN THE SAME.

***

Enter King, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (R.H.)

King. I like him not; nor stands it safe with us

To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you;

I your commission will forthwith despatch,

And he to England shall along with you:

Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage;

For we will fetters put upon this fear,

Which now goes too free-booted.

Ros.

Guil.

We will haste us.

[Cross behind the King, and exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, L.H.]

Enter Polonius (R.H.)

Pol. My lord, he’s going to his mother’s closet:

Behind the arras I’ll convey myself,

To hear the process; I’ll warrant, she’ll tax him home:

And, as you said, and wisely was it said,

‘Tis meet that some more audience than a mother,

Since nature makes them partial, should o’erhear

The speech of vantage. Fare you well, my liege:

[Polonius crosses to L.H.]

I’ll call upon you ere you go to bed,

And tell you what I know.

King.

Thanks, dear my lord.

[Exeunt Polonius, L.H., and King, R.H.]

ACT Three

Scene One.—A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

***

Three chairs on L.H., one on R.

Enter King and Queen, preceded by Polonius. Ophelia, Rosencrantz, and Giuldenstern, following (R.H.)

King. (C.) And can you, by no drift of conference,

Get from him why he puts on this confusion?

Ros. (R.) He does confess he feels himself distracted;

But from what cause he will by no means speak.

Guild. (R.) Nor do we find him forward to be sounded

But, with a crafty madness, keeps aloof,

When we would bring him on to some confession

Of his true state.

Queen. (R.C.) Did you assay him

To any pastime?

Ros. Madam, it so fell out, that certain players

We o’er-raught on the way: of these we told him;

And there did seem in him a kind of joy

To hear of it: They are about the court;

And, as I think, they have already order

This night to play before him.

Pol.

‘Tis most true:

And he beseech’d me to entreat your majesties

To hear and see the matter.

King. With all my heart; and it doth much content me

To hear him so inclin’d.

Good gentlemen, give him a further edge,

And drive his purpose on to these delights.

Ros. We shall, my lord.

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, R.H.]

King.

Sweet Gertrude, leave us too;

For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither,

That he, as ‘twere by accident, may here

Affront Ophelia:

Her father and myself (lawful espials),

Will so bestow ourselves, that, seeing, unseen,

We may of their encounter frankly judge;

And gather by him, as he is behaved,

If’t be the affliction of his love or no

That thus he suffers for.

Queen. (R.)

I shall obey you:

And for your part, Ophelia,

[Ophelia comes down L.H.]

I do wish

That your good beauties be the happy cause

Of Hamlet’s wildness: so shall I hope your virtues

Will bring him to his wonted way again,

To both your honours.

Oph.

Madam, I wish it may.

[Exit Queen, R.H.]

Pol. Ophelia, walk you here. Gracious, so please you,

We will bestow ourselves. Read on this book;

[To Ophelia.]

That show of such an exercise may colour

Your loneliness. We are oft to blame in this,—

‘Tis too much prov’d, that, with devotion’s visage

And pious action, we do sugar o’er

The devil himself.

King.

O, ‘tis too true! how smart

A lash that speech doth give my conscience! [Aside.]

Pol. I hear him coming: let’s withdraw, my lord.

[Exeunt King and Polonius, R.H. 2 E., and Ophelia, R.H.U.E.]

Enter Hamlet (L.H.)

Ham. To be, or not to be, that is the question:

Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The 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 end

The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to: ‘tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die,—to sleep,—

To sleep! perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: There’s the respect

That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,

To groan and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovered country, from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus, conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;

And enterprises of great pith and moment,

With this regard, their currents turn away,

And lose the name of action. [—Ophelia returns.—] Soft you now!

The fair Ophelia:—Nymph, in thy orisons

Be all my sins remember’d.

Oph. (R.C.)

Good my lord,

How does your honour for this many a day?

Ham. (L.C.) I humbly thank you; well.

Oph. My lord, I have remembrances of yours,

That I have longèd long to re-deliver;

I pray you, now receive them.

Ham.

No, not I;

I never gave you aught.

Oph. My honour’d lord, you know right well you did;

And, with them, words of so sweet breath compos’d

As made the things more rich: their perfume lost,

Take these again; for to the noble mind

Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.

There, my lord.

Ham. Ha, ha! are you honest?

Oph. My lord?

Ham. Are you fair?

Oph. What means your lordship?

Ham. That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.

Oph. Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?

Ham. Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd, than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness: this was some time a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once.

Oph. Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.

Ham. You should not have believed me; for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock, but we shall relish of it:I loved you not.

Oph. I was the more deceived.

Ham. Get thee to a nunnery: Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things, that it were better my mother had not borne me: I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in,imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do, crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where’s your father?

Oph. At home, my lord.

Ham. Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in’s own house. Farewell.

Oph. O, help him, you sweet heavens!

Ham. If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry. Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery; farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; go; go.

Oph. Heavenly powers, restore him!

Ham. I have heard of your paintingstoo, well enough; Heaven hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another: you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nickname Heaven’s creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more of’t; it hath made me mad. [Hamlet crosses to R.H.] I say, we will have no more marriages: those that are married already, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go.

[Exit Hamlet, R.H.]

Oph. (L.) O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!

The expectancy and rose of the fair state,

The glass of fashion and the mould of form,

The observ’d of all observers, quite, quite down!

And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,

That suck’d the honey of his musick vows,

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,

Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh:

O, woe is me,

To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!

[Exit Ophelia, L.H.]

Re-enter King and Polonius.

King. Love! his affections do not that way tend;

Nor what he spake, though it lack’d form a little,

Was not like madness. There’s something in his soul,

O’er which his melancholy sits on brood;

He shall with speed to England,

For the demand of our neglected tribute:

Haply, the seas, and countries different,

With variable objects, shall expel

This something-settled matter in his heart;

Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus

From fashion of himself. What think you on’t?

Pol. It shall do well: But yet I do believe

The origin and commencement of his grief

Sprung from neglected love. My lord, do as you please;

But, if you hold it fit, after the play,

Let his queen mother all alone entreat him

To show his grief: let her be round with him;

And I’ll be placed, so please you, in the ear

Of all their conference. If she find him not,

To England send him; or confine him where

Your wisdom best shall think.

King.

It shall be so:

Madness in great ones must not unwatch’d go.

[Exeunt, L.H.]

Enter Hamlet and a Player (R.H.)

Ham. (C.) Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hands thus; but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious perrywig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o’erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod Pray you, avoid it.

1st Play. (R.) I warrant your honour.

Ham. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor; suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature: for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as ‘twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time its form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of which one must, in your allowance, o’erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely,that, neither having the accent of christians, nor the gait of christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature’s journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.

[Crosses to R.]

1st Play. (L.) I hope we have reformed that indifferently with us.

Ham. O, reform it altogether. And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them: for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too; though, in the mean time, some necessary question of the play be then to be considered: that’s villainous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go, make you ready.

[Exit Player, L.H.]

Ham. What, ho, Horatio!

Enter Horatio (R.H.)

Hor. Here, sweet lord, at your service.

Ham. Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man

As e’er my conversation cop’d withal.

Hor. O, my dear lord.

Ham.

Nay, do not think I flatter;

For what advancement may I hope from thee,

That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits,

To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter’d?

No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp;

And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,

Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?

Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice,

And could of men distinguish, her election

Hath seal’d thee for herself: for thou hast been

As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing;

A man that fortune’s buffets and rewards

Has ta’en with equal thanks: and bless’d are those

Whose blood and judgment are so well co-mingled,

That they are not a pipe for fortune’s finger

To sound what stop she please. Give me that man

That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him

In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart,

As I do thee.—Something too much of this.—

There is a play to-night before the king;

One scene of it comes near the circumstance

Which I have told thee of my father’s death:

I pr’ythee when thou seest that act a-foot,

Even with the very comment of thy soul

Observe my uncle: if his occulted guilt

Do not itself unkennel in one speech,

It is a damned ghost that we have seen;

And my imaginations are as foul

As Vulcan’s stithy. Give him heedful note:

For I mine eyes will rivet to his face;

And, after, we will both our judgments join

In censure of his seeming.

[Horatio goes off, U.E.L.H.]

March. Enter King and Queen, preceded by Polonius, Ophelia, Horatio, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, Lords, Ladies, and Attendants. King and Queen sit (L.H.); Ophelia (R.H.)

King. (L.) How fares our cousin Hamlet?

Ham. (C.) Excellent, i’faith; of the cameleon’s dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed: you cannot feed capons so.

King. I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these words are not mine.

Ham. No, nor mine, now. My lord,—you played once in the university, you say? [To Polonius, L.]

Pol. (L.C.) That did I, my lord; and was accounted a good actor.

Ham. (C.) And what did you enact?

Pol. I did enact Julius Cæsar: I was killed i’the Capitol; Brutus killed me.

Ham. It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there.—Be the players ready?

Ros. Ay, my lord; they stay upon your patience.

Queen. Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me.

[Pointing to a chair by her side.]

Ham. No, good mother, here’s metal more attractive.

Pol. O, ho! do you mark that?

[Aside to the King.]

Ham. Lady, shall I lie in your lap?

[Lying down at Ophelia’s feet.]

Oph. (R.) You are merry, my lord.

Ham. O, your only jig-maker. What should a man do but be merry? for, look you, how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within these two hours.

Oph. Nay, ‘tis twice two months, my lord.

Ham. So long? Nay, then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables. O heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year: But, by’r-lady, he must build churches, then.

Oph. What means the play, my lord?

Ham. Miching mallecho; it means mischief.

Oph. But what is the argument of the play?

Enter a Player as Prologue (L.H.) on a raised stage.

Ham. We shall know by this fellow.

Pro.

For us, and for our tragedy,

Here stooping to your clemency,

We beg your hearing patiently.

[Exit, L.H.]

61Ham. Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?

Oph. ‘Tis brief, my lord.

Ham. As woman’s love.

Enter a King and a Queen (L.H.) on raised stage.

P. King. (R.) Full thirty times hath Phœbus’ cartgone round

Neptune’s salt wash and Tellus’ orbèd ground,

Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands,

Unite commutual in most sacred bands.

P. Queen. (L.) So many journeys may the sun and moon

Make us again count o’er ere love be done!

But, woe is me, you are so sick of late,

So far from cheer and from your former state,

That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust,

Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must.

P. King. ‘Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too;

My operant powers their functions leave to do:

And thou shalt live in this fair world behind,

Honour’d, belov’d; and, haply one as kind

For husband shalt thou——

P. Queen.

O, confound the rest!

Such love must needs be treason in my breast:

In second husband let me be accurst!

None wed the second but who kill’d the first.

Ham. That’s wormwood.

[Aside to Horatio, R.]

P. King. I do believe you think what now you speak;

But what we do determine oft we break.

So think you thou wilt no second husband wed;

But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.

P. Queen. Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light!

Sport and repose lock from me day and night!

Both here, and hence, pursue me lasting strife,

If, once a widow, ever I be wife!

P. King. ‘Tis deeply sworn.

Ham. If she should break it now!—

[To Ophelia.]

P. King. Sweet, leave me here awhile;

My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile

The tedious day with sleep.

[Reposes on a bank, R., and sleeps.]

P. Queen.

Sleep rock thy brain;

And never come mischance between us twain!

[Exit, L.H.]

Ham. Madam, how like you this play?

Queen. The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

Ham. O, but she’ll keep her word.

King. Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in’t?

Ham. No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i’the world.

King. What do you call the play?

Ham. The mouse-trap. Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna: Gonzago is the Duke’s name; his wife, Baptista: you shall see anon;—’tis a knavish piece of work: but what of that? your majesty, and we that have free souls, it touches us not: Let the galled jade wince, our withers are unwrung.

Enter Lucianus (L.H.)

This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king.

Oph. You are as good as a chorus, my lord.

Ham. I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying. Begin, murderer; leave thy damnable faces, and begin. Come:—

—— The croaking raven

Doth bellow for revenge.

Luc. Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing;

Confederate season, else no creature seeing;

Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected,

With Hecat’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected,

Thy natural magick and dire property,

On wholesome life usurp immediately.

[Pours the poison into the Sleeper’s Ears.]

Ham. He poisons him i’ the garden for his estate. His name’s Gonzago: the story is extant, and written in very choice Italian: You shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife.

King. Give me some light: away!

All. Lights, lights, lights!

[Exeunt all, R. and L., but Hamlet and Horatio.]

Ham.

Why, let the strucken deer go weep,

The hart ungallèd play;

For some must watch, while some must sleep:

So runs the world away.—

O, good Horatio, I’ll take the ghost’s word for a thousand pounds. Didst perceive?

Hor. (R.) Very well, my lord.

Ham. (C.) Upon the talk of the poisoning.—

Hor. I did very well note him.

Ham. Ah, ah! come, some musick! come, the recorders!

[Exit Horatio, R.H.]

Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (L.H.) Hamlet seats himself in the chair (R.)

Guil. (L.C.) Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you.

Ham. Sir, a whole history.

Guil. The king, sir,——

Ham. Ay, sir, what of him?

Guil. Is, in his retirement, marvellous distempered.

Ham. With drink, sir?

Guil. No, my lord, with choler.

Ham. Your wisdom should show itself more rich to signify this to the doctor; for, for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps plunge him into more choler.

Guil. Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame, and start not so wildly from my affair.

Ham. I am tame, sir:—pronounce.

Guil. The queen, your mother, in most great affliction of spirit, hath sent me to you.

Ham. You are welcome.

Guil. Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do your mother’s commandment: if not, your pardon and my return shall be the end of my business.

Ham. Sir, I cannot.

Guil. What, my lord?

Ham. 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 no more, but to the matter: My mother, you say,—

Ros. (Crosses to C.) Then thus she says: Your behaviour hath struck her into amazement and admiration.

Ham. O wonderful son, that can so astonish a mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother’s admiration?—impart.

Ros. She desires to speak with you in her closet, ere you go to bed.

Ham. We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us?

Ros. My lord, you once did love me.

Ham. And do still, by these pickers and stealers.

[Rises and comes forward, C.]

Ros. (R.) Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? you do, surely, bar the door of your own liberty, if you deny your griefs to your friend.

Ham. Sir, I lack advancement.

Ros. How can that be, when you have the voice of the king himself for your succession in Denmark?

Ham. Ay, sir, but While the grass grows,—the proverb is something musty.

Enter Horatio and Musicians (R.H.)

O, the recorders:—let me see one.—So; withdraw with you:—

[Exeunt Horatio and Musicians R.H. Guildenstern, after speaking privately to Rosencrantz, crosses behind Hamlet to R.H.]

Why do you go about to recover the wind of me,as if you would drive me into a toil?

Guil. (R.) O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.

Ham. (C.) I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe?

Guil. My lord, I cannot.

Ham. I pray you.

Guil. Believe me, I cannot.

Ham. I do beseech you.

Ros. (L.) I know no touch of it, my lord.

Ham. ‘Tis as easy as lying: govern these ventages with your fingers and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.

Guil. But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony; I have not the skill.

Ham. Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass: and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ; yet cannot you make it speak. ‘Sdeath, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

[Crosses to L.H.]

Enter Polonius (R.H.)

Pol. (R.) My lord, the queen would speak with you, and presently.

Ham. (C.) Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel?

Pol. By the mass, and ‘tis like a camel, indeed.

Ham. Methinks it is like a weasel.

Pol. It is backed like a weasel.

Ham. Or like a whale?

Pol. Very like a whale.

Ham. Then will I come to my mother by and by. They fool me to the top of my bent. I will come by and by.

Pol. I will say so.

Ham. By and by is easily said.

[Exit Polonius, R.H.

Leave me, friends.

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, R.H.]

‘Tis now the very witching time of night,

When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world: Now could I drink hot blood,

And do such bitter business as the day

Would quake to look on. Soft! now to my mother.

O, heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever

The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom:

Let me be cruel, not unnatural;

I will speak daggers to her, but use none.

[Exit]

Scene Two.—A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

***

Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Attendants (R.H.)

King. (C.) Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern!

Moreover that we much did long to see you,

The need we have to use you did provoke

Our hasty sending. Something have you heard

Of Hamlet’s transformation. What it should be,

More than his father’s death, that thus hath put him

So much from the understanding of himself,

I cannot dream of: I entreat you both,

That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court

Some little time: so by your companies

To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather,

Whether aught, to us unknown, afflicts him thus,

That, open’d, lies within our remedy.

Queen. (R.C.) Good gentlemen, he hath much talk’d of you;

And sure I am two men there are not living

To whom he more adheres. If it will please you

So to expend your time with us a while,

Your visitation shall receive such thanks

As fits a king’s remembrance.

Ros. (R.)

Both your majesties

Might, by the sovereign power you have of us,

Put your dread pleasures more into command

Than to entreaty.

Guil. (R.)

But we both obey,

And here give up ourselves, in the full bent,

To lay our service freely at your feet.

King. Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.

Queen. I do beseech you instantly to visit

My too much changèd son. Go, some of you,

And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is.

[Exeunt Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Attendants, R.H.]

Enter Polonius (L.H.)

Pol. Now do I think (or else this brain of mine

Hunts not the trail of policy so sure

As it hath us’d to do), that I have found

The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy.

King. (C.) O, speak of that; that do I long to hear.

Pol. (L.C.) My liege, and madam, to expostulate

What majesty should be, what duty is,

Why day is day, night night, and time is time,

Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time;

Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,

And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,—

I will be brief:—Your noble son is mad:

Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,

What is’t, but to be nothing else but mad?

But let that go.

Queen. (R.C.) More matter, with less art.

Pol. Madam, I swear I use no art at all.

That he is mad, ‘tis true: ‘tis true ‘tis pity;

And pity ‘tis, ‘tis true: a foolish figure;

But farewell it, for I will use no art.

Mad let us grant him, then: and now remains

That we find out the cause of this effect,

Or, rather say, the cause of this defect,

For this effect defective comes by cause:

Thus it remains, and the remainder thus,

Perpend.

I have a daughter, have, while she is mine,

Who, in her duty and obedience, mark,

Hath given me this: Now gather, and surmise.

[Reads] To the celestial, and my soul’s idol, the most beautified Ophelia,—

That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase, beautified is a vile phrase: but you shall hear. Thus:

In her excellent white bosom, these, &c.

Queen. Came this from Hamlet to her?

Pol. Good madam, stay awhile; I will be faithful.—

[Reads.]

Doubt thou the stars are fire;

Doubt thou the sun doth move;

Doubt truth to be a liar;

But never doubt, I love.

O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers; I have not art to reckon my groans: but that I love thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu.

Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him, Hamlet.

This, in obedience, hath my daughter shown me:

And more above, hath his solicitings,

As they fell out by time, by means, and place,

All given to my ear.

King.

But how hath she

Receiv’d his love?

Pol. What do you think of me?

King. As of a man faithful and honourable.

Pol. I would fain prove so. But what might you think,

When I had seen this hot love on the wing

(As I perceived it, I must tell you that,

Before my daughter told me), what might you,

Or my dear majesty your queen here, think,

If I had play’d the desk or table book;

Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb;

Or look’d upon this love with idle sight;

What might you think? No, I went round to work,

And my young mistress thus did I bespeak:

Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy sphere;

This must not be: and then I precepts gave her,

That she should lock herself from his resort,

Admit no messengers, receive no tokens.

Which done, she took the fruits of my advice;

And he, repuls’d (a short tale to make),

Fell into sadness; thence into a weakness;

Thence to a lightness; and, by this declension,

Into the madness wherein now he raves,

And all we mourn for.

King.

Do you think ‘tis this?

Queen. It may be, very likely.

Pol. Hath there been such a time (I’d fain know that,)

That I have positively said, ‘tis so,

When it proved otherwise?

King.

Not that I know.

Pol. Take this from this, if it be otherwise:

[Pointing to his head and shoulder.]

If circumstances lead me, I will find

Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed

Within the centre.

King.

How may we try it further?

Pol. You know, sometimes he walks for hours together

Here in the lobby.

Queen.

So he does, indeed.

Pol. At such a time I’ll loose my daughter to him:

Mark the encounter: if he love her not,

And be not from his reason fallen thereon,

Let me be no assistant for a state,

But keep a farm, and carters.

King.

We will try it.

Queen. But, look, where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.

Pol. Away, I do beseech you both, away:

I’ll board him presently.

[Exeunt King and Queen, R.H.]

Enter Hamlet, reading (L.C.)

Pol. How does my good lord Hamlet?

Ham. (C.) Excellent well.

Pol. (R.) Do you know me, my lord?

Ham. Excellent well; you are a fishmonger.

Pol. Not I, my lord.

Ham. Then I would you were so honest a man.

Pol. Honest, my lord!

Ham. Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

Pol. That’s very true, my lord.

Ham. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god, kissing carrion,——Have you a daughter?

Pol. I have, my lord.

Ham. Let her not walk i’the sun: conception is a blessing; but as your daughter may conceive,—friend, look to’t, look to’t, look to’t.

[Goes up stage.]

Pol. (Aside.) Still harping on my daughter:—yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger. [Crosses to L.] I’ll speak to him again.—What do you read, my lord?

Ham. (C.) Words, words, words.

Pol. (L.) What is the matter, my lord?

Ham. Between who?

Pol. I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.

Ham. Slanders, sir: for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards; that their faces are 39wrinkled; their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum; and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams: All of which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for yourself, sir, shall be as old as I am, if, like a crab, you could go backward.

[Crosses, L.]

Pol. (Aside.) Though this be madness, yet there’s method in it. Will you walk out of the air, my lord?

Ham. Into my grave?

[Crosses R.]

Pol. (L.) Indeed, that is out o’ the air.—How pregnant sometimes his replies are! a happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him, and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him and my daughter.—My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you.

Ham. (C.) You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withall, except my life, except my life, except my life.

Pol. Fare you well, my lord.

[Exit Polonius, L.H.]

Ham. These tedious old fools!

Pol. (Without.) You go to seek the lord Hamlet; there he is.

Ros. Heaven save you, sir!

Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (L.H.)

Guil. My honor’d lord!—

Ros. My most dear lord!—

Ham. My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? [Crosses to Rosencrantz.] Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do ye both? What news?

Ros. (L.) None, my lord, but that the world’s grown honest.

Ham. (C.) Then is dooms-day near: but your news is not true. In the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore?

Ros. To visit you, my lord; no other occasion.

Ham. Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you. Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, come, deal justly with me: come, come; nay, speak.

Guil. (R.) What should we say, my lord?

Ham. Any thing—but to the purpose. You were sent for; and there is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties have not craft enough to colour: I know the good king and queen have sent for you.

Ros. To what end, my lord?

Ham. That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, by the rights of our fellowship, [taking their hands,] by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer could charge you withal, be even and direct with me, whether you were sent for, or no?

Ros. What say you?

[To Guildenstern.]

Ham. Nay, then, I have an eye of you.34

[Crosses R.]

[Aside.]

—if you love me, hold not off.

Guil. My lord, we were sent for.

Ham. (Returning C.) I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the king and queen moult no feather. I have of late (but wherefore I know not) lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and, indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a steril promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me,—nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.

Ros. My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts.

Ham. Why did you laugh, then, when I said, Man delights not me?

Ros. To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, what lenten entertainment the players shall receive from you: we coted them on the way; and hither are they coming, to offer you service.

Ham. He that plays the king shall be welcome, his majesty shall have tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use his foil and target; the lover shall not sigh gratis; the humorous man shall end his part in peace; and the lady shall say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt for’t.—What players are they?

Ros. Even those you were wont to take such delight in, the tragedians of the city.

Ham. How chances it, they travel? their residence, both in reputation and profit, was better both ways. Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? Are they so followed?

Ros. No, indeed, they are not.

Ham. It is not very strange; for my uncle is king of Denmark, and those that would make mouths at himwhile my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, an hundred ducats a-piece for his picture in little. There is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out.

[Flourish of trumpets without.]

Guil. There are the players.

Ham. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands. You are welcome: but my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.

Guil. In what, my dear lord?

Ham. I am but mad north-north west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a hern-shaw.

[Crosses R.]

Pol. (Without, L.H.) Well be with you, gentlemen!

Ham. (Crosses C.) Hark you, Guildenstern;—and Rosencrantz: that great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling-clouts.

Ros. (R.) Haply he’s the second time come to them; for they say an old man is twice a child.

Ham. I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players; mark it.—You say right, sir: o’Monday morning; ‘twas then, indeed.

Enter Polonius L.H.

Pol. My lord, I have news to tell you.

Ham. My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in Rome,——

Pol. The actors are come hither, my lord.

Ham. Buz, buz!

Pol. Upon my honour,——

Ham. Then came each actor on his ass.

Pol. The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastorical-comical, historical-pastoral, scene indivisible, or poem unlimited: Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light. For the law of writ and the liberty, these are the only men.

Ham. O, Jephthah, judge of Israel,—what a treasure hadst thou!

Pol. What a treasure had he, my lord?

Ham. Why,—

One fair daughter, and no more,

The which he loved passing well.

Pol. Still harping on my daughter.

[Aside.]

Ham. Am I not i’the right, old Jephthah?

Pol. If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I love passing well.

Ham. Nay, that follows not.

Pol. What follows, then, my lord?

Ham. Why, As by lot, God wot, and then, you know, It came to pass, As most like it was,—The first row of the pious Chanson will show you more; for look, my abridgment comes.

Enter Four or Five Players (L.H.)—Polonius crosses behind Hamlet to R.H.

You are welcome, masters; welcome, all: O, old friend! Why, thy face is valanced since I saw thee last; Com’st thou to beard me in Denmark?—What, my young lady and mistress. By-’r-lady, your ladyship is nearer to heaven than when I saw you last, by the altitude of a chopine. You are welcome. We’ll e’en to’t like French falconers, fly at anything we see: We’ll have a speech straight: Come, give us a taste of your quality; come, a passionate speech.

1st Play. (L.H.) What speech, my lord?

Ham. I heard thee speak me a speech once,—but it was never acted; or, if it was, not above once; for the play, I remember, pleased not the million; ‘twas caviare to the general:but it was an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning. One speech in it I chiefly loved; ‘twas Æneas’ tale to Dido; and thereabout of it especially, where he speaks of Priam’s slaughter: If it live in your memory, begin at this line; let me see, let me see;—

The rugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast,—’tis not so: it begins with Pyrrhus:

The rugged Pyrrhus,—he, whose sable arms,

Black as his purpose, did the night resemble,

Old grandsire Priam seeks.

Pol. (R.) ‘Fore Heaven, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and good discretion.

Ham. (C.) So proceed you.

1st Play. (L.) Anon he finds him

Striking too short at Greeks; his antique sword,

Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls,

Repugnant to command: Unequal match’d,

Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage strikes wide;

But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword

The unnerved father falls.

But, as we often see, against some storm,

A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still,

The bold wind speechless, and the orb below

As hush as death; anon the dreadful thunder

Doth rend the region; So, after Pyrrhus’ pause,

A roused vengeance sets him new a work;

And never did the Cyclops’ hammers fall

On Mars’s armour, forg’d for proof eterne,

With less remorse than Pyrrhus’ bleeding sword

Now falls on Priam.—

Out, out, thou fickle Fortune!

Pol. (R.) This is too long.

Ham. It shall to the barber’s, with your beard.— Say on;—come to Hecuba.

1st Play. But who, ah woe, had seen the mobled queen—

Ham. The mobled queen?

Pol. That’s good; mobled queen is good.

1st Play. Run barefoot up and down, threatening the flames;

A clout upon that head

Where late the diadem stood; and, for a robe,

A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up;

Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep’d,

‘Gainst fortune’s state would treason have pronounced.

Pol. Look, whether he has not turned his colour, and has tears in’s eyes.—Prithee, no more.

Ham. (C.) ‘Tis well; I’ll have thee speak out the rest of this soon.—Good, my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used; for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time: After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.

Pol. (R.) My lord, I will use them according to their desert.

Ham. Much better: Use every man after his desert, and who shall ‘scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity: The less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in.

[Crosses to R.H.]

Pol. Come, sirs.

Ham. Follow him, friends: we’ll hear a play to-morrow.

[Exit Polonius with some of the Players, L.H.]

Old friend [Crosses to C.] —My good friends [To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.] I’ll leave you till night: you are welcome to Elsinore—can you play the murder of Gonzago?

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, R.H.]

1st Play. Ay, my lord.

Ham. We’ll have it to-morrow night. You could, for a need, study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, which I would insert in’t—could you not?

1st Play. Ay, my lord.

Ham. Very well.—Follow that lord; and look you mock him not.

[Exit Player, L.H.]

Now I am alone.

O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!

Is it not monstrous, that this player here,

But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,

Could force his soul so to his own conceit,

That, from her working, all his visage wann’d;

Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect,

A broken voice, and his whole function suiting

With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing!

For Hecuba?

What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,

That he should weep for her? What would he do,

Had he the motive and the cue for passion

That I have? He would drown the stage with tears,

And cleave the general ear with horrid speech;

Make mad the guilty, and appal the free;

Confound the ignorant, and amaze, indeed,

The 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 life

A 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?

Why, I should take it: for it cannot be

But I am pigeon-liver’d, and lack gall

To make oppression bitter; or, ere this,

I should have fatted all the region kites

With this slave’s offal: 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 scold, unpack my heart with words,

And fall a cursing, like a very drab,

A scullion!

Fye upon’t! fye! About, my brains! I have heard

That guilty creatures, sitting at a play,

Have by the very cunning of the scene

Been struck so to the soul, that presently

They have proclaim’d their malefactions;

For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak

With most miraculous organ. I’ll have these players

Play something like the murder of my father

Before mine uncle: I’ll observe his looks;

I’ll tent him to the quick: if he do blench,

I know my course. The spirit that I have seen

May be the devil: and the devil hath power

To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and, perhaps

Out of my weakness and my melancholy

(As he is very potent with such spirits),

Abuses me to damn me: I’ll have good grounds

More relative than this: The play’s the thing

Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.

[Exit, R.H.]

END OF ACT SECOND. 

ACT Two

Scene One.—A ROOM IN POLONIUS’S HOUSE.

***

Enter Polonius (L.H.), meeting Ophelia. (R.H.)

Pol. How now, Ophelia! What’s the matter?

Oph. O, my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!

Pol. With what, in the name of Heaven?

Oph. My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,

Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac’d;

Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other,

And with a look so piteous in purport,

He comes before me.

Pol. Mad for thy love?

Oph.

My lord, I do not know;

But, truly, I do fear it.

Pol.

What said he?

Oph. He took me by the wrist, and held me hard;

Then goes he to the length of all his arm;

And, with his other hand thus o’er his brow,

He falls to such perusal of my face

As he would draw it. Long staid he so;

At last,—a little shaking of mine arm,

And thrice his head thus waving up and down,

He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound,

As it did seem to shatter all his bulk,

And end his being: That done, he lets me go:

And, with his head over his shoulder turn’d,

He seem’d to find his way without his eyes;

For out o’doors he went without their helps,

And, to the last, bended their light on me.

Pol. Come, go with me; I will go seek the king.

This is the very ecstacy of love;

What, have you given him any hard words of late?

Oph. No, my good lord; but, as you did command,

I did repel his letters, and denied

His access to me.

Pol.

That hath made him mad.

Come, go we to the king:

This must be known; which, being kept close, might move

More grief to hide than hate to utter love.

Come.

[Exeunt L.H.]