Hamlet Page #3

walk than may be given you.

Do not believe his vows.

I would not, in plain terms,

from this time forth,

have you so slander

any moment leisure as to give

words or talk

with the Lord Hamlet.

Look to it.

I charge you.

We have the word "to be".

But what I propose s

the word "to Inter-be".

"Inter-be".

It s not possble to be alone,

to be by yourself.

You need other people

n order to be.

You need other bengs

n order to be.

Not only you need

father, mother,

but also uncle,

or brother, sster,

socety.

But you also need sunshne,

rver, ar, trees,

brds, elephants,

and so on.

So t s mpossble to be

by yourself, alone.

You have to "nter-be"

wth everyone and everythng else.

And therefore to be

means to "nter-be".

To the celestial

and my soul's idol...

the most beautified Ophelia.

Doubt that the stars are fire,

doubt that the sun doth move,

doubt truth to be a liar,

but never doubt my love.

To be or not to be.

To be or not to be.

So oft t chances

n partcular men

that for some vcous

mole of nature n them

or by some habt

that too much overleavens

the form of plausble manners,

that these men,

carryng, I say,

the stamp of one defect,

ther vrtues else they

as pure as grace,

shall n the general censure

take corrupton...

How goes my good Lord Hamlet?

Well, God-a-mercy.

Do you know me, my lord?

Excellent well.

You are a fishmonger.

Not I, my lord.

Then I would you were

so honest a man.

Honest, my lord?

Ay, sir. To be honest,

as this worid goes,

s to one man of ten thousand.

That s very true, my lord.

Have you a daughter?

I have, my lord.

Let her not walk in the sun.

Conception is a blessing,

but as your daughter may conceive,

friend, look to it.

How say you by that?

Stll harpng on my daughter.

He s far gone.

And truly n my youth

I suffered much for love.

Will you go out into the air?

Into my grave.

My honourable lord,

I humbly take my leave of you.

You cannot take from me anything

I will not willingly part,

except my life.

Except my life.

Except my life.

Except my life.

My liege.

My liege, and madam.

To expostulate...

what majesty should be,

what duty is,

why day is day,

night, night,

and time is time,

where nothing but to waste...

night, day and time.

Therefore, since brevity

is the soul of wit

and tediousness the limbs

and outward flourishes,

I will be brief.

Your noble son is mad.

Mad call I it, for to define

true madness, what is it but...

to be nothing else but mad?

But let that go.

More matter, less art.

I swear I use no art at all.

That he is mad, 'tis true,

'tis true, 'tis pity,

and pity 'tis, 'tis true

a foolish figure, but farewell it,

for I will use no art.

Mad let us grant him then.

Now remains for us to find out

the cause of this effect.

Or rather the cause of this defect.

For this effect,

defective comes by cause.

Thus it remains,

and the remainder thus.

Perpend:
I have a daughter,

have while she is mine,

who in her duty,

and obedience, mark,

hath given me this.

Gather now and surmise.

Came this from Hamlet to her?

"I have no art to reckon my groans.

I love thee best, O most best.

Every thought of thine,

ever more whist this machine

is to him, Hamlet."

This in obedience

hath my daughter shown to me.

And more above,

hath his solicitings

as they fell out by time, means

and place all given to my ear.

How hath she received his love?

What do you think of me?

As of a man,

faithful and honourable.

I would fain prove so.

But what might you think had I

seen this hot love on the wing,

as I perceived

before my daughter told me,

what might you or

my dear Majesty think

if I had looked upon

this love with idle sight?

What might you think?

No, I went round to work

and my young mistress

thus I did bespeak:

"Lord Hamlet is a prince,

out of thy star.

This must not be."

She took the fruits of

my advice and he repelled,

a short tale to make,

fell into a sadness,

then into a fast,

thence to a watch,

thence into a weakness,

thence to a lightness

and by this declensin

into the madness

wherein now he raves,

and all we mourn for.

Do you think 'tis this?

It may be, very like.

Take this from this,

if this be otherwise.

If circumstances lead me,

I will find where truth is hid,

though it were hid, indeed,

within the centre.

To be or not to be,

that is the question.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind

to suffer the slings and arrows

of outrageous fortune,

or to take arms against

a sea of troubles

and by opposing,

end them.

To die,

to sleep...

no more.

And by a sleep to say

we end the heartache

and the thousand natural shocks

the flesh is heir to.

'Tis a consummation

devoutly to be wished.

To die,

to sleep, perchance to dream.

There's the rub.

For in that sleep of death,

what dreams may come, when we

have shuffled off this

mortal coil, must give us pause.

There's the respect

that makes calamity

of so long a life.

For who could bear

the whips and scorns of time,

the proud man's contumely,

the insolence of office,

the law's delay,

the pangs of disprized love,

when he himself might

his own quietus make

with a bare bodkin?

Who would fardles bear,

to grunt and sweat

under a weary life

were it not the dread

of something after death?

The undiscovered country

to whose bourn no traveller returns

puzzles the will

and makes us rather bear

those ills we have

than fly to others we know not of.

And thus conscience

does make cowards of us all.

And thus the native hue

of resolution

is sicklied o'er with

the pale cast of thought

and enterprises of

great pitch and moment

in this regard

their currents turn awry

and lose the name of action.

My excellent good friend!

How dost thou, Guildenstern?

Ah, Rosencrantz!

Good lads, how do you both?

As the indifferent children

of the earth.

Happy in that

we are not overhappy.

On fortune's cap we are not

the very button.

- Nor the soles of her shoes?

- Neither, my lord.

What news?

None, my lord, but that

the worid's grown honest.

Then doomsday is near.

But your news is not true.

Let me question more in particular.

What have you my friends deserved

at the hands of fortune that

she has sent you to prison hither?

Prison, my lord?

Denmark is a prison.

Then the worid is one.

A goodly one, with confines,

wards and dungeons,

Denmark being one of the worst.

We think not so, my lord.

Well then 'tis none to you,

for their is neither good

nor bad but thinking makes it so.

To me it is a prison.

Your ambition makes it so.

'Tis too narrow for your mind.

O God, I could be

bound in a nutshell and count

myself king of infinite space.

Were it not that

I have bad dreams.

What make you here?

To visit you, my lord,

no other occasin.

Can you by no conference get from

him why he puts on this confusin

grating so harshly his days with

turbulent and dangerous lunacy?

He confesses he feel dstracted,

but from what cause

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