Hamlet Page #11

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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?

'Sblood, 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.

God bless you, sir!

My lord,

the queen would speak with you...

THEY PLAY RECORDERS

..and presently!

Do you see yonder cloud

that's almost in shape of a camel?

By the mass,

and 'tis like a camel, indeed.

Methinks it is like a weasel.

It is backed like a weasel.

Or like a whale? Very like a whale.

Then I will come to

my mother by and by.

They fool me to the top of my bent.

I will come by and by.

I will say so.

By and by is easily said!

Leave me, friends.

HAMLET PLAYS "THREE BLIND MICE"

'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.

I will speak daggers to her,

but use none.

I like him not,

nor stands it safe with us

to let his madness range.

Therefore prepare you.

I your commission

will forthwith dispatch,

and he to England

shall along with you.

The terms of our estate

may not endure

hazard so dangerous

as doth hourly grow

out of his lunacy.

We will ourselves provide.

Most holy and religious fear it is

to keep those many, many bodies safe

that live and feed

upon your majesty.

Never alone did the king sigh,

but with a general groan.

For majesty is like a massy wheel,

fix'd on the summit

of the highest mount

to whose huge spokes

10,000 lesser things

are morticed and adjoin'd.

Arm you, I pray you,

to this speedy voyage,

for we will fetters put

upon this fear,

which now goes too free-footed.

We will haste us.

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.

Fare you well, my liege.

I'll call upon you ere you go

to bed, and tell you what I know.

Thanks, dear my lord.

HE COUGHS:

O, my offence is rank.

It smells to heaven.

It hath the primal eldest curse

upon't -

a brother's murder.

Pray can I not,

though inclination

be as sharp as will -

my stronger guilt

defeats my strong intent.

And, like a man

to double business bound,

I stand in pause

where I shall first begin,

and both neglect.

What if this curs-ed hand

were thicker than itself

with brother's blood?

Is there not rain enough

in the sweet Heavens

to wash it white as snow?

Whereto serves mercy

but to confront

the visage of offence?

And what's in prayer

but this two-fold force

to be forestalled

ere we come to fall,

or pardon'd, being down?

Then I'll look up.

My fault is past.

But, O, what form of prayer

can serve my turn?

"Forgive me my foul murder?"

That cannot be,

since I am still possess'd

of those effects

for which I did the murder -

my crown, mine own ambition

and my queen.

May one be pardon'd

and retain the offence?

In the corrupted currents

of this world,

offence's gilded hand

may shove by justice,

and oft 'tis seen

the wicked prize itself

buys out the law,

but 'tis not so above.

There is no shuffling.

There the action lies

in his true nature,

and we ourselves compell'd,

even to the teeth

and forehead of our faults,

to give in evidence.

What then?

What rests?

Try what repentance can.

O...

what can it not?

But what can it,

when one cannot repent?

O wretched state!

O bosom black as death!

O lime-ed soul, that,

struggling to be free,

art more engaged!

Help, angels!

Make assay!

Bow, stubborn knees,

and heart with strings of steel,

be soft as sinews

of the newborn babe.

All may yet be well.

HE MOUTHS:

Now might I do it pat,

now he is praying.

And now I'll do't!

And so he goes to heaven,

and so am I revenged.

That would be scann'd.

A villain kills my father,

and for that,

I, his sole son,

do this same villain send to Heaven?

O, this is hire and salary,

not revenge.

He took my father grossly,

full of bread,

with all his crimes broad blown,

as flush as May.

And how his audit stands,

who knows save Heaven?

Am I then revenged,

to take him

in the purging of his soul,

when he is fit and season'd

for his passage?

No!

Up, blade,

and know thou a more horrid hent,

when he is drunk asleep,

or in his rage,

or in the incestuous pleasure

of his bed,

at gaming, swearing,

or about some act

that has no relish

of salvation in't.

Then trip him, that his heels

may kick at Heaven,

and that his soul may be

as damn'd and black

as Hell, whereto it goes.

My mother stays.

This physic but prolongs

thy sickly days.

My words fly up,

my thoughts remain below.

Words without thoughts

never to Heaven go.

He will come straight.

Look you, lay home to him.

Tell him his pranks

have been too broad to bear with,

And that your grace hath screen'd

and stood between

Much heat and him.

I'll silence me even here.

Pray you, be round with him.

KNOCK AT DOOR:

I'll warrant you, Fear me not.

Withdraw, I hear him coming.

Mother! Mother!

Mother!

Now, Mother, what's the matter?

Hamlet, thou hast thy father

much offended.

Mother, you have my father

much offended.

Come, come, you answer

with an idle tongue.

Go, go, you question with a wicked

tongue. Why, how now, Hamlet!

What's the matter now?

Have you forgot me?

No, by the rood, not so.

You are the queen,

your husband's brother's wife,

and - would it were not so! -

you are my mother.

Nay, then, I'll set those to you

that can speak.

Come, come, and sit you down,

you shall not budge.

You go not till I set you up a glass

where you may see

the inmost part of you.

What wilt thou do?

Thou wilt not murder me!

Help, help, ho!

What, ho! Help, help, help! How now!

A rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead!

GUNSHO What hast thou done?

Nay, I know not. Is it the king?

O, what a rash and bloody deed

is this!

A bloody deed!

Almost as bad, good mother,

as kill a king,

and marry with his brother.

As kill a king!

Ay, lady, 'twas my word.

Thou wretched, rash,

intruding fool, farewell!

I took thee for thy better.

Take thy fortune.

Leave wringing of your hands.

Peace! Sit you down,

and let me wring your heart,

for so I shall,

if it be made of penetrable stuff.

What have I done,

that thou darest wag thy tongue

in noise so rude against me?

Such an act

That blurs the grace

and blush of modesty,

Calls virtue hypocrite,

makes marriage-vows

as false as dicers' oaths.

Ay me, what act,

that roars so loud,

and thunders in the index?

Look here, upon this picture,

and...on this.

The counterfeit presentment

of two brothers.

See, what a grace

was seated on this brow.

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