Hamlet Page #9

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Help, angels. Make assay.

Bow, stubborn knees,

and, heart, with strings of steel,

be soft as sinews of the new-born babe.

All may be well.

My words fly up,

my thoughts remain below.

Words without thoughts

never to heaven go.

Good sir, whose powers are these?

- They are of Norway, sir.

- How purpos'd, sir, I pray you?

- Against some part of Poland.

- Who commands them, sir?

The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras.

Goes it against the main of Poland

or some frontier?

Truly to speak, and with no additions,

we go to gain a patch of land that hath

no more profit in it but the name.

To pay five ducats, five,

I would not farm it.

- God be with you, sir.

- I humbly thank you, sir.

Will't please you go, my lord?

I'll be with you straight.

Go a little before.

How all occasions do inform against me,

and spur my dull revenge!

What is a man,

if the chief good and market of his time

be but to sleep and feed?

A beast, no more!

Sure he that made us

with such large discourse,

Iooking before and after,

gave us not that capability and godlike

reason to fust in us unus'd.

Now, whether it be bestial oblivion,

or some craven scruple

of thinking too precisely on th' event,

a thought which, quarter'd, hath but one

part wisdom and ever three parts coward,

I do not yet know why I live to say

"This thing's to do",

sith I have cause, and will, and strength,

and means to do it.

Examples gross as earth exhort me;

witness this army

of such mass and charge,

Ied by a delicate and tender prince,

whose spirit, with divine ambition puff'd,

makes mouths at the invisible event,

exposing what is mortal and unsure

to all that fortune,

death, and danger dare,

even for an egg-shell.

Rightly to be great is not to stir

without great argument,

but greatly to find quarrel in a straw,

when honour's at the stake.

How stand l, then,

that have a father killed,

a mother stain'd,

excitements of my reason and my blood,

and let all sleep,

while to my shame, I see the imminent

death of twenty thousand men

that, for a fantasy and trick of fame,

go to their graves like beds,

fight for a plot whereon the numbers

cannot try the cause,

which is not tomb enough

and continent to hide the slain?

O, from this time forth, my thoughts

be bloody, or be nothing worth!

No, I will not speak with her.

She is importunate, indeed distract.

Her mood will needs be pitied.

'Twere good she were spoken with; for

she may strew dangerous conjectures

in ill-breeding minds.

Let her come in.

Where is the beauteous majesty

of Denmark?

How now, Ophelia!

How should I your true love know

From the other one?

By his cockle hat and staff

And his sandal shoon

Alas, sweet lady,

what imports this song?

Say you? Nay, pray you mark.

White his shroud as the mountain snow

Larded o'er with sweet flowers

Which bewept to the grave did not go

With true love showers

Alas, look here, my lord.

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 know not what we may be.

God be at your table!

Conceit upon her father.

Pray let's have no words of this;

but when they ask you what it means,

say 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

Pretty Ophelia!

Indeed, without an oath

I'll make an end on't.

Quoth she, "Before you tumbled me

You promised me to wed"

He answers:
"So would I 'a done

by yonder sun,

"An hadst thou 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 will lay him i' th' cold ground.

My brother shall know of it;

and so I thank you

for your good counsel.

Come, my coach! Good night, ladies;

sweet ladies, good night, good night.

Her brother is in secret

come from France;

and wants not buzzers to infect his ear

with pestilent speeches

wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd,

will nothing stick our person

to arraign in ear and ear.

O my dear Gertrude, when sorrows

come, they come not single spies,

but in battalions!

Where are my Switzers?

Let them guard the door.

Young Laertes, in a riotous head,

o'erbears your officers.

The rabble call him lord, they cry,

"Choose we, Laertes shall be king".

How cheerfully

on the false trail they cry!

The doors are broke.

Thou vile king, give me my father!

Calmly, good Laertes.

That drop of blood

that's calm proclaims me bastard;

cries cuckold to my father;

brands the harlot even here

between the chaste unsmirched brows

of my true mother.

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 at what

it would, acts little of his will.

- Where is my father?

- Dead.

- But not by him.

- Let him demand his fill.

How came he dead?

I'll not be juggled with.

To hell, allegiance!

Vows to the blackest devil!

I dare damnation.

Good Laertes, if you desire to know

the certainty of your dear father's death,

is't writ in your revenge that,

swoopstake,

you will draw both friend and foe,

winner and loser?

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 sensible in grief for it,

it shall as level to your judgment 'pear

as day does to your eye.

How now! What noise is that?

O, heat dry up my brains!

Rose of May!

Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!

They bore him barefac'd on the bier

Sing hey nonny, nonny, hey nonny

And in his grave rain'd many a tear

Fare you well, my dove!

O, how the wheel becomes it!

It is the false steward

that stole his master's daughter.

This nothing's more than matter.

Here's rosemary, that's for remembrance;

pray you, love, remember.

Here's pansies, that's for thoughts.

A document in madness -

thoughts and remembrance fitted.

Here's fennel for you, and columbines.

Here's some rue for you;

and here's some for me.

We may call it herb of grace a Sundays.

But you must wear your rue

with a difference.

Here is a daisy.

I would give you some violets, but

they wither'd all when my father died.

They say a made a good end.

God have mercy on his soul.

And on all you Christian souls,

I pray God.

God be wi' ye.

Is't possible a young maid's wits should

be as mortal as an old man's life?

Laertes, I must commune with your grief,

or you deny me right.

Go but apart, make choice

of whom your wisest friends you will,

and they shall hear

and judge twixt you and me.

- God bless you, sir.

- Let him bless thee too.

He shall sir, an't please Him.

I've got a letter here for you, sir.

It comes from th' ambassador

as was bound for England,

if your name be Horatio,

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