The Laurence Olivier Awards 1997 Page #7

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myself to hear the process.

I warrant shell tax him home,

and as you said-

and wisely was it said- tis meet

that some more audience than a mother-

since nature makes them partial-

should oer hear the speech of vantage.

Fare you well, my liege. Ill call

upon you ere you go to bed...

and tell you what I know.

Thanks, dear my lord.

Oh, my offense is rank.

It smells to heaven.

It hath the primal eldest curse

upon it:

a brothers murder.

Pray, can I not, though inclination

be as sharp as will.

What if this cursed hand were thicker

than itself with brothers blood?

Is there not rain enough

in the sweet heavens...

to wash it white as snow?

Oh, what form of prayer

can serve my turn?

Forgive me my foul murder??

That cannot be, since I am still

possessed of those effects...

for which I did the murder:

my crown,

mine own ambition...

and my queen.

Oh, wretched state.

Oh, bosom black as death!

Help, angels.

All may yet be well.

Now might I do it pat.

Now hes praying.

And now Ill do it.

And so he goes

to heaven.

And so am I revenged.

That would be thought on.

A villain kills my father,

and for that, I, his sole son

do the same villain send to heaven.

Oh, this is hire and salary,

not revenge.

He took my father with all his

crimes full-blown,

as flush as May.

And how his audit stands,

who knows save Heaven?

But in our circumstance and course

of thought tis heavy with him.

And am I then revenged to take

him in the purging of his soul,

when he is fit and seasoned

for his passage?

No.

Up, sword, and know

thou a more dark intent.

When he is drunk, asleep

or in his rage,

or in the incestuous pleasure

of his bed,

at gaming, swearing or about some act

that has no relish of salvation in it.

Then trip him, that his heels

may kick at heaven,

and that his soul may be as damned

and black as hell whereto it goes.

My mother stays.

This physic but prolongs

thy sickly days.

My words fly up.

My thoughts remain below.

Words without thoughts

never to heaven go.

He will come straight.

Look you lay hold to him. Tell him his

pranks have been too broad to bear with...

and that Your Grace hath screened

and stood between much heat and him.

Ill silence me eeen here.

- Pray you, be round with him!

- Mother?

Mother?

Mother.

Ill warrant you,

fear me not.

Withdraw.

I hear him coming.

- Now, Mother, whats the matter?

- Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

Mother, you have my father

much offended.

Come, come. You answer

with an idle tongue.

Go, go. You question

with a wicked tongue.

- Why, how now, Hamlet?

- Whats the matter now?

- Have you forgot me?

- No, by the rood! Not so.

You are the queen.

Your husbands brotherss wife.

And would it were not so.

You are my mother.

- Nay, then Ill set those to you that can speak.

- Come, come, and sit you down!

You shall not budge!

You go not till I set you up a glass

where you may see the inmost part of you.

What wilt thou do?

Thou wilt not murder me? Help!

- Help! Help!

- Help! Help!

How now?

A rat!

Dead for a ducat!

Dead.

Oh, me.

What hast thou done?

Nay, I know not.

Is it the king?

Oh, what a wretched,

bloody deed is this.

A bloody deed. Almost as bad,

good mother, as kill a king...

and marry with his brother.

As kill a king?

Aye, lady.

Twas my word.

Thou wretched, rash,

intruding fool, farewell.

I took thee for thy better.

Take thy fortune.

Thou findst to be too busy

is some danger.

Leave wringing of the 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 that thou darest wag

thy tongue in noise so rude against me?

Such an act that blurs

the grace and blush of modesty,

calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose

from the fair forehead of an innocent love...

and sets a blister there, makes marriage

vows as false as dicers oaths.

- Aye me, what act?

- Look here upon this picture, and on this!

The counterfeit presentment

of two brothers.

See what a grace was seated

on this brow.

An eye like Mars,

to threaten and command,

a stature like the herald Mercury,

new-lighted on a heaven kissing hill,

a combination and a form, indeed, where

every god did seem to set his seal...

to give the world

assurance of a man!

This was your husband.

Look you now what follows.

Here is your husband like a mildewed

ear, blasting his wholesome brother!

Have you eyes?

You cannot call it love,

for at your age the heyday

in the blood is tame.

Its humble and waits upon the judgement.

What judgement would step from this to this?

What devil wast that thus

hath hoodwinked you?

Oh, shame. Where is thy blush? If

hell can rise up in a matrons bones...

to flaming youth,

let virtue be as wax!

Oh, Hamlet!

Speak no more.

Thou turnst mine eyes

into my very soul,

and there I see such black and grained

spots as will not lose their stain.

Nay! But to live in the rank

sweat of a lascivious bed,

stewed in corruption, honeying

and making love over the nasty sty-

Speak to me no more. These words

like daggers enter into mine ears!

- No more, sweet Hamlet!

- A murderer and a villain!

A slave that is not twentieth part

the worth of your true lord.

A cutpurse of the empire and the throne,

that from a shelf the precious diadem stole!

- No more!

- A king of shreds and patches!

Save me, and hover over me

with your wings, you heavenly guards.

What would

your gracious figure?

Alas, hes mad.

Do you not come

your tardy son to chide,

that lapsed in time and passion,

lets go by the important acting

of your dread command?

Oh, say.

Do not forget.

This visitation is but to whet

thy almost blunted purpose.

But look.

Amazement on thy mother sits.

Oh, step between her

and her fighting soul.

Speak to her, Hamlet.

How is it with you,

lady?

Alas, how ist with you, that you

do bend your eye on vacancy...

and with the incorporal air

do hold discourse?

O gentle son. Upon the heat

and flame of thy distemper...

sprinkle cool patience.

Whereon do you look?

On him. On him.

Look you how pale

he glares.

His form and cause conjoined,

preaching to stones,

would make them sensitive.

Do not look upon me,

lest with this piteous action

you convert my stern intents.

So I shed tears, not blood.

To whom do you speak this?

Do you see nothing there?

No, nothing at all.

- Yet all there is, I see.

- Do you nothing hear?

No, nothing but ourselves.

Why, look you there!

Look how it steals away!

My father, in his habit

as he lived!

Look where he goes, even now,

out at the portal!

This is the very coinage

of your brain.

This bodiless creation,

madness is very cunning in.

Madness?

My pulse, as yours, doth

temperately keep time,

and makes

as healthful music.

Mother, for love of grace, lay not

that flattering unction to your soul...

that not your trespass

but my madness speaks.

Confess yourself

to heaven.

Repent whats past.

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