Hamlet Page #5

Pray you, be round with him.

Mother, what's the matter?

Hamlet, thou hast thy father

much offended.

Mother, you have my father

much offended.

You answer with an idle tongue.

You question with a wicked tongue.

Have you forgot me?

No, not so. You are the Queen,

your husband's brother's wife.

And would it were not so,

you are my mother.

Then I'll set those to you

that can speak.

Come sit you down!

You shall not budge.

Not till I set you up a glass

where you see inmost part of you.

What, thou wilt not murder me?

- Help!

- Help!

What hast thou done?

Nay, I know not.

Is it the King?

O what rash...

and bloody deed is this?

Almost as bad,

good mother...

as kill a king and marry

with his brother.

Kill a king?

Ay, lady, it was my word.

Thou wretched, rash,

intruding fool, farewell.

I took thee for thy better.

Take thy fortune. Thou find'st

to be too busy is some danger.

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?

Have you eyes?

You cannot call it love, for at

your age the blood is tame.

It's humble. It waits upon

the judgement.

O shame!

Where is thy blush?

To live in the rank sweat

of an enseamed bed,

honeying and making love

over the nasty sty!

No more!

Nay, a kept villain, a murderer,

a king of shreds and patches!

No more.

How would you, gracious figure?

Do not chide your tardy son.

Alas, he's mad.

Do not forget. This visitation

is but to whet

thy almost blunted purpose.

But look,

amazement on thy mother sits.

Step between her

and her fighting soul!

Speak to her, Hamlet.

How is it with you, lady?

Where on do you look?

On him! Look you

how pale he glares.

Do not look upon me.

To whom do you speak this?

Do you see nothing there?

Nothing at all.

This is the very coinage

of your brain.

My pulse as yours

doth temporately keep time

and makes as healthful music.

It is not madness I have uttered.

Mother,

for the love of grace,

confess yourself to heaven.

Repent what is past.

Avoid what is to come.

Do not spread the compost

on the weeds to make them ranker.

O Hamlet,

thou hast cleft my heart in twain.

Throw away the worser part of it,

and live the purer

with the other half.

Good night.

For the same lord, I do repent.

But heaven hath pleased it so

to punish me with this

and this with me.

I will bestow him, and answer well

the death gave him.

One word more, good lady.

What shall I do?

Not ths, by no means,

let that bloat Kng

tempt you agan to bed,

pinch wanton on your cheek,

call you his mouse,

and let him,

for a pair of reechy kisses,

make you ravel this matter out,

that I essentially am not

in madness, but mad in craft.

Be thou assured.

If words are made of breath,

and breath of life,

I have no life to breathe

what thou has said to me.

I must to England,

you know that.

Alack, I had forgotten.

'Ts so concluded on.

I'll lug the guts

into the neighbouring room.

Mother, good night.

Indeed this counsellor

is most still,

most silent,

and most grave,

who was in life

a foolish, prating knave.

Come sir, to draw toward

an end with you.

Good night, mother.

What have you done, my lord,

with the dead body?

Compounded it with dust,

whereto 'tis kin.

Tell us where 'tis, so we may

bear it to the chapel.

Do not believe it.

Believe what?

That I can keep your counsel

and not my own.

Besides, to be demanded of

by a sponge...

You take me for a sponge?

Ay, sir.

Soaking up the King's countenance,

his awards, his authorities.

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.

How now, what hath befallen?

Where the dead body

is bestowed, my lord,

we cannot get from him.

Now Hamlet, where is Polonius?

At supper.

At supper? Where?

Not where he eats,

but where he is eaten.

A convocation of politic worms

are eaten at him.

We fat all creatures to fat us,

we fat ourselves for maggots.

Your fat king and lean beggar

is but variable service.

Two dishes, but to one table.

That's the end.

Where is Polonius?

In heaven.

Send thither to see.

If your messenger find him not,

seek in the other place yourself.

But indeed if you find him not

within the month,

you shall nose him as you

go up the stairs into the lobby.

Go seek him there.

He will stay till you 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, wind helps,

associates tend, for England.

For England?

- Ay, Hamlet.

- Good.

If thou knowest our purpose.

Farewell, my mother.

Thy loving father, Hamlet.

My mother.

Father and mother is man and wife,

man and wife is one flesh,

and so my mother.

For everything...

is sealed and done

that leans on the affair.

The present death of Hamlet.

Do it, England,

for like the hectic in my blood

he rages and thou must cure me.

Good sir,

whose powers are these?

The nephew to old Norway,

Fortinbras.

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,

looking before and after,

gave us not that capability

and godlike reason

to fust in us unused.

Now...

whether it's bestial oblivion

or some craven scruple

of thinking too precisely

on the event.

A thought quartered has one part

wisdom, three parts coward.

I know not why yet

I live to say:

"This thing's to do."

Sith I have cause,

and means and strength

and will to do it.

Examples gross as earth

exhort me.

Rightly to be great

is not to stir

without great argument,

but greatly to find quarrel

in a straw

when honour is at stake.

How stand I then,

that have a father killed,

a mother stained,

excitements of my reason

and my blood...

and let all sleep?

From this time forth,

may my thoughts be bloody

or be nothing worth.

To my sick soul,

as sin's true nature is,

each joy 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 I your true love

know from another one?

Alas, sweet lady,

what imports this song?

What say you? He is

dead and gone, dead and gone.

At his head, grassgreen turf,

at his heels, a stone.

Nay, but Ophelia...

Pray you mark!

My lord, alas look here.

How do you, pretty lady?

Pray, let's have

no more words of this.

But when they ask you, say this:

Up he rose and donned his clothes

and dug the chamber door,

but in the maid and out

the maid, never departed more.

I hope all will be well.

We must be patient.

But I cannot choose but to weep,

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