The Laurence Olivier Awards 1997 Page #9

---

with a difference.

Theres a daisy.

I would give you some violets, but they

withered all when my father died.

They say he made

a good end.

For bonny sweet Robin

is all my joy

Do you see this, O God?

And will he not

come again

No, no

He is dead

Go to thy death bed

He never will come again

God have mercy

On his soul

And of all Christian souls,

I pray God.

God be with you.

There is a willow

grows aslant a brook...

that shows his hoar leaves

in the glassy stream.

There with fantastic garlands

did she come,

of crow-flowers, nettles,

daisies and long purples.

There on the pendent boughs...

her coronet weeds

clambering to hang,

an envious sliver broke...

when down her weedy trophies and herself

fell in the weeping brook.

Her clothes spread wide...

and, mermaid like,

a while they bore her up.

But long

it could not be...

till that her garments,

heavy with their drink,

pulled the poor wretch

from her melodious lay...

to muddy death.

Alas,

then she has drowned.

Drowned.

In youth when I did love,

did love

Methought it was very sweet

To contract

Oh

The time for

Ah, my behove

Methought there was

nothing meet

But age

with his stealing steps

That clawed me

in his clutch

Whose grave is this,

sirrah?

Mine, sir.

I think it be thine, indeed,

for thou liest in it.

You lie out ont, sir,

therefore it is not yours.

For my part I do not lie int,

and yet it is mine.

Thou dost lie int, to be intt

and say it is thine.

Tis for the dead, not the quick.

Therefore thou liest.

Tis a quick lie, sir.

TTwill go away again from me to you.

- What man dost thou dig it for?

- No man, sir.

- For what woman, then?

- For none neither.

Who is to be buried

in it?

One that was a woman, sir, but,

rest her soul, shes dead.

How absolute the knave is.

We must speak by the card

or equivocation will undo us.

How long hast thou been

grave maker?

Of all the days in the year,

I came to it that day...

that our last King Hamlet

oercame Fortinbras.

- How long is that since?

- Cannot you tell that? Every fool can tell that.

It was the very day that

young Hamlet was born.

- He that is mad and sent into England.

- Aye, marry.

- Why was he sent into England?

- Why? Because he was mad.

He shall recover

his wits there.

- Or if he do not, tis no great matter there.

- Why?

It will not be seen in him there.

There the men are as mad as he.

- How came he mad?

- Very strangely, they say.

How, strangely?

- Faith, een by losing his wits.

- Upon what ground?

Why, here in Denmark.

How long will a man lie

in the earth ere he rot?

I faith, if he be not rotten before he die,

he will last some eight year, nine year.

- A tanner will last you nine year.

- Why he, more than another?

Why, sir, his hide

is so tanned with his trade,

it will keep out water

a great while,

and your waters a sore decayer

of your whoreson dead body.

Here. Heres

a skull, now.

This skull has lain in the earth

three and twenty year.

- Whose was it?

- Whoreson mad fellows, it was.

Whose do you think it was?

- Nay, I know not.

- A pestilence on him for a mad rogue.

He poured a flagon

of Rhenish on my head once.

This same skull, sir,

was Yoricks skull. The kingss jester.

This?

Een that.

Let me see.

Alas, poor Yorick.

I knew him, Horatio.

A fellow of infinite jest,

of most excellent fancy.

He hath borne me on his back

a thousand times.

But now how abhorred in my imagination

it is. My gorge rises it.

Here hung those lips that I have

kissed I know not how oft.

Where be your jibes now?

Your songs? Your gambols?

Your flashes of merriment that were

wont to set the table on a roar?

Not one now to mock

your own grinning?

Quite chop fallen.

Now get you

to my ladys chamber.

Tell her. Let her paint

an inch thick.

To this favor she must come.

Make her laugh at that.

But soft!

The king!

The queen, the courtiers.

Who is this

they follow?

And with such meager rites.

This doth betoken the corpse they follow

did with desperate hand take its own life.

Mark.

- What ceremony else?

- That is Laertes, a very noble youth. Mark!

What ceremony else?

Her obsequies have been as far

enlarged as we have warranty.

Her death was doubtful.

And but that great command

oer sways the order,

she should in ground unsanctified

have lodged till the last trumpet.

Must there no more be done?

No more be done?

We should profane the service of the dead

to sing a requiem and such rest to her...

as to peace-parted souls.

Lay her in the earth.

And from her fair

and unpolluted flesh...

may violets spring.

I tell thee,

churlish priest,

a ministering angel shall my sister

be when thou liest howling.

What!

The fair Ophelia!

Sweets to the sweet.

Farewell.

I hoped thou shouldst

have been my Hamlets wife.

I thought thy bride bed

to have decked, sweet maid.

And not have strewed

thy grave.

Oh, treble woe, fall ten times treble

on that cursed head...

whose wicked deed thy most ingenious

sense deprived thee of.

Hold off the earth a while till I have

caught her once more in my arms.

Now pile your dust

on the quick and dead...

till of this flat

a mountain you have made!

What is he whose grief

bears such an emphasis?

- This is I, Hamlet the Dane!

- The devil take thy soul!

Thou prayest not well. I prithee take thy

fingers from my throat! Hold off thy hands.

Pluck them asunder.

Why, I will fight with him upon this

theme until my eyelids will no longer wag!

O my son,

what theme?

I loved Ophelia.

their quantity of love, make up my sum!

- What wilt thou do for her?

- He is mad, Laertes!

Swounds, show me

what thoullt do.

Would weep, would fight, would fast,

would tear thyself, would drink up poison?

Eat a crocodile?

Ill do it!

Dost thou come here to whine, to outface

me with leaping in her grave?

Be buried quick with her

and so will I!

Or if thou prate of mountains, let them

throw millions of acres on us!

Nay, an thoult mouth,

Illl rant as well as thou.

This is mere madness. And thus

a while the fit will work in him.

Anon as patient as the female dove,

his silence will sit drooping.

Hear you, sir. What is the

reason that you use me thus?

I loved you ever.

But it is no matter.

Let Hercules himself

do what he may,

the cat will mew

and dog will have his day.

I pray you,

good Horatio, wait upon him.

Good Gertrude, set some watch

oer your son.

Laertes, I must commune

with your grief.

Or you deny me right.

And you must put me

in your heart for friend.

Where the offense is,

let the great axe fall.

It shall be so.

But tell me why you have

proceeded not against him.

Oh, for two special reasons,

which may to you seem

much unsinewed.

Yet to me, theyre strong.

The queen, his mother,

lives almost by his looks.

For myself- my virtue

or my plague, be it either way-

shes so conjunctive

to my life and soul,

that as the star moves not

but in his sphere,

I could not but by her.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes