Hamlet Page #13

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hath he dragg'd him.

Go seek him out.

Speak fair,

and bring the body into the chapel.

I pray you, make haste.

Oh, Gertrude, come.

Let's call up our wisest friends,

and let them know

both what we mean to do

and what's untimely done.

Come away.

My soul is full of

discord and dismay.

SHOUTING:

Safely stowed.

Hamlet! Lord Hamlet!

What noise?

Here they come.

What have you done, my lord,

with the dead body?

Compounded it with dust,

whereto 'tis kin.

Tell us where 'tis, that we may take

it thence and bear it to the chapel.

Do not believe it. Believe what?

That I can keep your

counsel and not mine own.

Besides, to be demanded of a sponge!

What replication should be

made by the son of a king?

Take you me for a sponge, my lord?

Ay, sir,

that soaks up

the king's countenance,

his rewards, his authorities.

But such officers do the

king best service in the end.

He keeps them,

like an ape, an apple

in the corner of his jaw.

First mouthed,

to be last swallowed

when he needs what you have gleaned,

it is but squeezing you,

and, sponge, you shall be dry again.

I understand you not, my lord.

I am glad of it.

A knavish speech

sleeps in a foolish ear.

My lord, you must tell us where the

body is, and go with us to the king.

The body is with the king,

but the king is not with the body.

The king is a thing.

A thing, my lord! Of nothing.

Bring me to him.

Hide fox, and all after.

I have sent to seek him,

and to find the body.

How dangerous is it

that this man goes loose!

Yet must not we put

the strong law on him.

He's loved

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.

To bear all smooth and even,

this sudden sending him away

must seem deliberate cause.

Diseases desperate grown by

desperate measure are relieved,

or not at all.

How now! what hath befall'n?

Where the dead body is bestow'd,

my lord, We cannot get from him.

But where is he? Without, my lord,

guarded, to know your pleasure.

Bring him before us.

Guildenstern! Bring in my lord.

Now, Hamlet,

where is Polonius?

At supper.

At supper! Where?

Not where he eats,

but where he is eaten.

A certain convocation of

politic worms are e'en at him.

Your worm is your

only emperor for diet.

We fat all creatures else

to fat ourselves,

we fat ourselves for maggots.

Alas, alas!

A man may fish with the worm that

hath eat of a king, and eat of the

fish that hath fed of that worm.

What dost you mean by this?

Nothing but to show you how

a king may go a progress

through the guts of a beggar.

Where is Polonius?

In heaven!

Send hither 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 upstairs into the lobby.

Seek him there.

He will stay till ye come.

Hamlet, this deed,

for thine especial safety,

which we do tender, as we dearly

grieve for that which thou hast done,

must send thee hence

with fiery quickness.

Therefore prepare thyself.

The bark is ready, and the wind

at help, the associates tend,

and everything is bent for England.

For England!

Ay, Hamlet. Good. So is it,

if thou knew'st our purposes.

I see a cherub that sees them.

Come, for England!

Farewell, dear mother.

Thy loving father, Hamlet.

My mother,

father and mother is man and wife,

man and wife is one flesh,

and so, my mother.

Come, for England!

Whee!

Follow him at foot.

Tempt him with speed aboard.

Delay it not.

I'll have him hence tonight.

For every thing is seal'd and done

that else leans on this affair. Away.

And, England,

if my love thou hold'st at aught,

thou mayst not coldly set

our sovereign purpose.

The present death of Hamlet.

Do it, England,

for like the hectic in my blood

he rages, and thou must cure me.

Till I know 'tis done,

whate'er may hap,

my joys were ne'er begun.

I will not speak with her.

She is importunate, indeed distract.

Her mood will needs be pitied.

What would she have?

She speaks much of her father,

says she hears there's tricks i'

the world, speaks things in doubt,

that carry but half sense.

Her speech is nothing,

yet the unshaped use of it doth

move the hearers to collection.

'Twere good she was spoken with,

for she may strew dangerous

conjectures in ill-breeding minds.

Let her come in.

To my sick soul,

as sin's true nature is, each toy

seems prologue to some great amiss.

So full of artless jealousy

is guilt,

it spills itself

in fearing to be spilt.

Where is the beauteous

majesty of Denmark?

How now, Ophelia!

# How should your true love know

# From another one?

# By his cockle hat and staff

# And his sandal shoon... #

Alas, sweet lady,

what imports this song?

Say you? Nay, pray you, mark.

# He is dead and gone, lady

# He is dead and gone

# At his head a grass-green turf

# At his heels a stone... #

Nay, but, Ophelia... PRAY YOU, MARK!

# White his shroud

as the mountain snow

# Larded with sweet flowers

# Which bewept to the grave

did not go

# With true-love showers. #

How do you, pretty lady?

Well, God 'ild you!

They say the owl

was a baker's daughter.

O Lord, we know what we are,

but know not what we may be.

God be at your table!

Conceit upon her father. Pray you,

let's have no words of this.

But when they ask you what

it means, say you this -

# Tomorrow is Saint Valentine's day

# All in the morning betime

# And I a maid at your window

# To be your valentine

# Then up he rose

and donn'd his clothes

# And dupp'd the chamber-door

# Let in the maid

that out a maid never departed more

# I'll make an end on't

# By Gis and by Saint Charity

# Alack, and fie for shame!

# Young men will do't,

if they come to't

# By cock, they are to blame

# Quoth she, before you tumbled me,

# You promised me to wed

# So would I ha' done, by yonder sun

# An thou hadst not

come to my bed. #

How long hath she been thus?

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.

Follow her close.

Give her good watch, I pray you.

O, this is the poison of deep grief.

It springs all from her

father's death and now, behold.

O, Gertrude, Gertrude.

When sorrows come, they come not

single spies but in battalions.

First, her father slain.

Next, your son gone,

and he most violent author

of his own just remove.

The people muddied,

sick and unwholesome in their

thoughts and whispers

for good Polonius' death,

and we have done but greenly,

in hugger-mugger thus to inter him.

Poor Ophelia,

divided from herself and her

fair judgment, without the

which we are but pictures,

or mere beasts.

Last, and yet as much

containing all of these,

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