Franco Zeffirelli: The Art of Entertainment Page #7

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He is dead and gone

At his head a grass-green turf

At his heels a stone

How long has she been thus?

How do you, pretty lady?

Well, God 'ild you!

They say the owl was a baker's daughter.

Lord, we know what we are,

but not what we may be.

I hope all will be well.

We must be patient.

But I cannot choose but weep...

to think they would lay him

in the cold ground.

My brother shall know of it.

And so I thank you for your good counsel.

Come, my coach.

Poor Ophelia...

divided from herself and her fair judgment.

Good night, ladies.

Sweet ladies, good night.

Follow her close.

Give her good watch, I pray you.

Quoth she, "Before you tumbled me

you promised me to wed"

He answers

"So would I ha ' done, by yonder sun

"An thou hadst not come to my bed"

O Gertrude...

when sorrows come,

they come not single spies...

but in battalions.

No!

My lady.

"By letters that these worthy men

must bear...

"the present death of Hamlet.

"Do it, England."

No!

Where is this king?

Let him stand before me!

Where is the King?

- Stay, my lord Laertes.

- Hold him back!

O thou vile king, give me my father!

Calmly, good Laertes!

Let him go...

and do not fear our person.

Where is my father?

- Dead.

- Let come what comes...

only I'll be revenged most throughly

for my father.

Good Laertes...

if you desire to know

the certainty of your dear father...

is it writ in your revenge...

that you will draw

against both friend and foe?

None but his enemies.

Why, now you speak...

like a good child and a true gentleman.

That I am guiltless of your father's death...

and am most sensibly in grief for it...

it shall as level to your judgment appear

as day does to your eye.

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance.

Pray you, love, remember.

And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

There's fennel for you, and columbines.

There's rue for you,

and here's some for me.

You must wear your rue with a difference.

There's a daisy.

I'd give you some violets,

but they withered all when my father died.

They say he made a good end.

O heavens,

is it possible a young maid's wits...

should be as mortal as an old man's life?

There is a willow grows aslant the brook...

that shows his hoar leaves

in the glassy stream.

There with fantastic garlands

did she make...

of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies,

and long purples.

There, on the pendent boughs...

her crownet weeds clambering to hang...

an envious sliver broke...

when down her weedy trophies

and herself...

fell in the weeping brook.

Her clothes spread wide...

and mermaid-like,

awhile they bore her up...

which time she chanted

snatches of old tunes...

as one incapable of her own distress...

or like a creature native

and indued unto that element.

But long it could not be...

but that her garments,

heavy with their drink...

pulled the poor wretch

from her melodious lay...

to muddy death.

Alas! Then she is drowned?

Drowned.

Methought it was very sweet

To contract the time for my behove

Methought there was nothing a-meet

But age, with his stealing steps

Hath clawed me in his clutch

Whose grave's this, sirrah?

Mine, sir.

I think it be thine indeed,

for thou liest in it.

- What man dost thou dig it for?

- For no man, sir.

- What woman, then?

- For none, neither.

Who is to be buried in it?

One that was a woman, sir.

But, rest her soul, she's dead.

How absolute the knave is.

How long hast thou been grave-maker?

Since that very day

that young Hamlet was born.

He that is mad and sent into England.

Ay, marry, why was he sent into England?

Why, because he was mad.

He shall recover his wits there.

Or, if he do not, 'tis no great matter there.

- Why?

- 'Twill not be seen in him there.

There the men are as mad as he.

How long will a man lie in the earth

ere he rot?

Faith, if he be not rotten before he die,

some eight year, nine year.

Here's a skull now...

hath lain you in the earth

some three-and-twenty years.

Whose was it?

A whoreson mad fellow's it was.

He poured a flagon of Rhenish

on my head once.

- Whose do you think it was?

- Nay, I know not.

This same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull...

the King's jester.

- This?

- E'en that.

Let me see.

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.

And now,

how abhorred in my imagination it is.

My gorge rises at it.

Here hung those lips that I have kissed

I know not how oft.

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 chopfallen?

Now get you to my lady's chamber...

and tell her...

let her paint an inch thick...

to this favor she must come.

Make her laugh at that.

The King, the courtiers.

Who is this they follow?

Lay her in the earth.

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh

may violets spring.

Sweets to the sweet.

Farewell.

I hoped thou shouldst have been

my Hamlet's wife.

I thought thy bride-bed to have decked,

sweet maid...

and not to have strewed thy grave.

Hold off the earth awhile, till I have

caught her once more in mine arms.

O rose of May...

dear maid...

kind sister.

The devil take thy soul!

I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat...

for I have in me something dangerous...

which let thy wiseness fear.

Hold off thy hand!

Pluck them asunder!

Good my lord, be quiet.

I loved Ophelia.

Forty thousand brothers could not...

with all their quantity of love...

make up my sum.

What wilt thou do for her?

'Swounds, show me what thou wilt do!

Hear you, sir, I loved you ever.

But it is no matter.

Let Hercules himself do what he may...

the cat will mew

and dog will have his day.

I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.

Will you be ruled by me?

I will, my lord,

so you will not overrule me to a peace.

To thine own peace.

But tell me, sir...

why you proceeded not against

these crimes so capital in nature?

For two especial reasons:

The Queen his mother

lives almost by his looks.

And for myself.

My virtue or my plague,

be it either which...

she is so conjunctive to my life and soul...

that, as the star moves

not but in his sphere...

I could not but by her.

The other motive is the great love

the general gender bear him.

Laertes, was your father dear to you?

Or are you like the painting of a sorrow,

a face without a heart?

Why ask you this?

Not that I think

you did not love your father. But, Laertes...

what would you undertake

to show yourself your father's son...

in deed more than in words?

To cut his throat in the church.

Revenge should have no bounds.

That we would do...

we should do when we would.

I'll work the prince...

to an exploit now ripe in my device,

under the which he cannot choose but fall.

And for his death...

no wind of blame shall breathe...

but even his mother

shall uncharge the practice...

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