Hamlet Page #8

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My lord, there was

no such stuff in my thoughts.

Why did you laugh then,

when I said man delights not me?

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. What players are they?

Even those you were wont

to take delight in,

the tragedians of the city.

He that plays the king

shall be welcome.

His Majesty

shall have tribute of me.

It is not very strange,

for mine uncle is king of Denmark,

and there are those that would make

mows at him while my father lived,

who'd give twenty, forty,

fifty, an hundred ducats a-piece

for his picture in little.

'Sblood, there is something

in this more than natural,

if philosophy could find it out.

CAR HORN:

There are the players. Gentlemen,

you are welcome to Elsinore.

Come then, your hands.

My uncle-father and aunt-mother

are deceived.

In what, my dear lord?

I am but mad north-north-west.

When the wind is southerly,

I know an 'awk from an 'andsaw.

Well, be with you, gentlemen!

Hark you, Guildenstern, and you too.

At each ear a hearer -

That great baby you see there is

not yet out of his swaddling-clouts.

Happily he's the second time

come to them, for they say

an old man is twice a child.

I will prophesy he comes to

tell me of the players - mark it.

You say right, sir -

Monday morning, 'twas so indeed.

My lord, I have news to tell you.

My lord, I have news to tell you!

When Roscius was an actor in Rome...

The actors are come hither, my lord.

Buzz, buzz! Upon mine honour...

Then came each actor on his arse.

The best actors in the world,

either for tragedy, comedy, history,

pastoral, pastoral-comical,

historical-pastoral,

tragical-historical,

tragical-comical-historical-pastoral,

scene individable, or poem unlimited.

Seneca cannot be too heavy,

nor Plautus too light.

O Jephthah, judge of Israel,

what a treasure hadst thou!

What a treasure had he, my lord?

Why, "One fair daughter and no more,

The which he loved passing well."

Still on my daughter.

Am I not i' the right, old Jephthah?

If you call me Jephthah, my lord,

I have a daughter

that I love passing well.

Nay, that follows not.

What follows, then, my lord? You are

welcome, masters, welcome, all.

I am glad to see thee well.

Welcome, good friends.

O, my old friend!

What, my young lady and mistress!

By'r lady, your ladyship is nearer

to Heaven than when I last saw you.

Pray God, your voice be not

cracked within the ring.

We'll have a speech straight.

Come, give us a taste of your

quality - come, a passionate speech.

What speech, my lord?

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.

One speech in it I chiefly

loved 'twas Aeneas' 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," - it is not so.

It begins with Pyrrhus,

"The rugged Pyrrhus..."

He whose sable arms...

"..whose sable arms"!

Er, "black as his purpose

did the night resemble.

"When he lay couch-ed

in the ominous horse,

"hath now this dread

and black complexion smear'd

"With heraldry more dismal,

head to foot.

"Now is he..." Total...

"total gules, roasted in wrath,

"And thus o'er-sized

with coagulate gore,

"with eyes like carbuncles,

the hellish Pyrrhus..."

Pyrrhus...

"Old grandsire Priam seeks."

So, proceed you.

Fore God, my lord, well spoken,

with good accent and good discretion.

Ssssh!

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

his unnerv-ed father falls.

Then senseless Ilium,

Seeming to feel this blow,

with flaming top

stoops to his base,

and with a hideous crash

takes prisoner Pyrrhus' ear

for, lo! his sword,

which was declining

on the milky head

of Reverend Priam,

seem'd in the air to stick.

So, as a painted tyrant,

Pyrrhus stood,

And like a neutral to

his will and matter,

did nothing.

But, as we often see,

against some storm,

a silence in the Heavens,

the rack stand still,

the bold winds speechless

and the orb below

as hush as death.

Anon the dreadful thunder

doth rend the region,

so, after Pyrrhus' pause,

arous-ed vengeance

sets him new a-work.

And never did

the Cyclops' hammers fall

on Mars, his armours

forged for proof eterne

with less remorse

than Pyrrhus' bleeding sword

now falls on Priam.

This is too long.

It shall to the barber's,

with your beard. Prithee, say on.

He's for a jig or a tale of bawdry,

or he sleeps.

Say on, come to Hecuba.

But who,

O,

who had seen the mobled queen?

The mobled queen?

That's good, "mobled queen" is good.

Sshh!

Run barefoot up and down,

threatening the flames

with bisson rheum,

a clout about that head

where late the diadem stood.

And for a robe, about her lank

and all o'er-teemed loins,

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.

But if the gods themselves

did see her then

when she saw Pyrrhus

make malicious sport

in mincing with his sword

her husband's limbs,

the instant burst

of clamour that she made,

unless things mortal

move them not at all,

would have made milch

the burning eyes of heaven...

..and passion in the gods.

Look, where he has not turned

his colour and has tears in's eyes.

Pray you, no more.

'Tis well.

I'll have thee speak out

the rest soon.

APPLAUSE:

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.

My lord, I will use them

according to their desert.

God's bodykins, man, much better!

Use every man after his desert,

and who should 'scape whipping?

Come, sirs. Follow him, friends.

We'll hear a play tomorrow.

Dost thou hear me, old friend?

Can you play the Murder of Gonzago?

Ay, my lord.

We'll ha't tomorrow night.

You could, for a need,

study a speech

of some dozen or sixteen lines,

which I would set down

and insert in't, could you not?

Ay, my lord. Very well.

Follow that lord,

and pray you, mock him not.

Er...no.

My good friends,

I'll leave you till night.

You are welcome to Elsinore.

Good my lord!

Ay, so, God be wi' ye.

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 workings

all his visage wann'd,

tears in his eyes,

distraction in his aspect,

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