| |
[Elsinore. A room in the castle]
Enter QUEEN, HORATIO [and a Gentleman]
Queen. I will not speak with her. | |
| [Gent.] She is importunate, indeed distract. | |
| Her mood will needs be pitied. | |
| Queen. What would she have? | 4 |
| [Gent.] She speaks much of her father; says she hears | |
| There’s tricks i’ the world, and hems, and beats her heart, | |
| Spurns enviously 1 at straws, speaks things in doubt | |
| That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing, | 8 |
| Yet the unshaped use of it doth move | |
| The hearers to collection. 2 They aim at it | |
| And botch 3 the words up fit to their own thoughts; | |
| Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them, | 12 |
| Indeed would make one think there would be thought, | |
| Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. | |
| [Hor.] ’Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strew | |
| Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds. | 16 |
| Let her come in. [Exit Gentleman. | |
| Queen. [Aside.] To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, | |
| Each toy 4 seems prologue to some great amiss; 5 | |
| So full of artless jealousy 6 is guilt, | 20 |
| It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. | |
| |
Enter OPHELIA, distracted
Oph. Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark? | |
| Queen. How now, Ophelia! | |
Oph. [Sings.] | | “How should I your true love know |
| From another one? |
| By his cockle hat 7 and staff, |
| And his sandal shoon.” |
| 24 |
| Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song? | |
Oph. Say you? Nay, pray you, mark. [Sings.]| | “He is dead and gone, lady, |
| He is dead and gone; |
| At his head a grass-green turf |
| At his heels a stone.” |
| |
| |
Enter KING
Queen. Nay, but, Ophelia,— | |
Oph. Pray you, mark. [Sings.]| | “White his shroud as the mountain snow,”— |
| 28 |
| Queen. Alas, look here, my lord. | |
Oph. [Sings.]| | “Larded 8 with sweet flowers; |
| Which bewept to the grave did not go |
| With true-love showers.” |
| |
| King. How do you, pretty lady? | |
| Oph. 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! | 32 |
| King. Conceit 9 upon her father. | |
Oph. Pray you, let’s have no words of this, but when they ask you what it means, say you this: [Sings.]| | “To-morrow 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 10 the chamber door; |
| Let in the maid, that out a maid |
| Never departed more.” |
| |
| King. Pretty Ophelia! | |
Oph. Indeed, la, without an oath I’ll make an end on’t.| | “By Gis, 11 and by Saint Charity, |
| Alack! and, fie for shame! |
| Young men will do’t, if they come to ’t; |
| By Cock, 12 they are to blame. |
| |
| “Quoth she, ‘Before you tumbled me, |
| You promis’d me to wed.’ |
| ‘So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun, |
| An thou hadst not come to my bed.’ ” |
| 36 |
| King. How long hath she been thus? | |
| Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be patient; but I cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him i’ the cold ground. My brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good-night, ladies; good-night, sweet ladies; good-night, good-night. Exit. | |
| King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you. [Exeunt some.] | |
| O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs | 40 |
| All from her father’s death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, | |
| When sorrows come, they come not single spies, | |
| But in battalions. First, her father slain; | |
| Next, your son gone; and he most violent author | 44 |
| Of his own just remove; the people muddied, | |
| Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers, | |
| For good Polonius’ death; and we have done but greenly | |
| In hugger-mugger 13 to inter him; poor Ophelia | 48 |
| Divided from herself and her fair judgement, | |
| Without the which we are pictures, or mere beasts; | |
| Last, and as much containing as all these, | |
| Her brother is in secret come from France, | 52 |
| Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds, | |
| And wants not buzzers to infect his ear | |
| With pestilent speeches of his father’s death, | |
| Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d, | 56 |
| Will nothing stick our persons to arraign | |
| In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, | |
| Like to a murdering-piece, 14 in many places | |
| Gives me superfluous death. A noise within. | 60 |
| |
Enter a Messenger
Queen. Alack, what noise is this? | |
| King. Where are my Switzers? 15 Let them guard the door. What is the matter? | |
| Mess. Save yourself, my lord! | |
| The ocean, overpeering of his list, 16 | 64 |
| Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste | |
| Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, 17 | |
| O’erbears your officers. The rabble call him lord; | |
| And, as the world were now but to begin, | 68 |
| Antiquity forgot, custom not known, | |
| (The ratifiers and props of every word,) | |
| They cry, “Choose we! Laertes shall be king!” | |
| Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds, | 72 |
| “Laertes shall be king, Laertes king!” | |
| Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! | |
| O, this is counter, 18 you false Danish dogs! | |
| |
Enter LAERTES [armed; Danes following]
King. The doors are broke. Noise within. | 76 |
| Laer. Where is this king? Sirs, stand you all without. | |
| Danes. No, let’s come in. | |
| Laer. I pray you, give me leave. | |
| Danes. We will, we will. [They retire without the door.] | 80 |
| Laer. I thank you; keep the door. O thou vile king, | |
| Give me my father! | |
| Queen. Calmly, good Laertes. | |
| Laer. That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard, | 84 |
| Cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot | |
| Even here, between the chaste unsmirched brows | |
| Of my true mother. | |
| King. What is the cause, Laertes, | 88 |
| 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 to what it would, | 92 |
| Acts little of his will. Tell me, Laertes, | |
| Why thou art thus incens’d. Let him go, Gertrude. | |
| Speak, man. | |
| Laer. Where’s my father? | 96 |
| King. Dead. | |
| Queen. But not by him. | |
| King. Let him demand his fill. | |
| Laer. How came he dead? I’ll not be juggl’d with. | 100 |
| To hell, allegiance! Vows, to the blackest devil! | |
| Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! | |
| I dare damnation. To this point I stand, | |
| That both the worlds I give to negligence, | 104 |
| Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d | |
| Most throughly for my father. | |
| King. Who shall stay you? | |
| Laer. My will, not all the world. | 108 |
| And for my means, I’ll husband them so well, | |
| They shall go far with little. | |
| King. Good Laertes, | |
| If you desire to know the certainty | 112 |
| Of your dear father’s death, is’t writ in your revenge | |
| That, swoopstake, 19 you will draw both friend and foe, | |
| Winner and loser? | |
| Laer. None but his enemies. | 116 |
| King. Will you know them then? | |
| Laer. To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms, | |
| And like the kind life-rend’ring pelican, | |
| Repast them with my blood. | 120 |
| King. Why, now you speak | |
| Like a good child and a true gentleman. | |
| That I am guiltless of your father’s death, | |
| And am most sensibly in grief for it, | 124 |
| It shall as level to your judgement pierce | |
| As day does to your eye. | |
| A noise within: “Let her come in!” | |
| |
Re-enter OPHELIA
Laer. How now! what noise is that? | 128 |
| O heat, dry up my brains! Tears seven times salt | |
| Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye! | |
| By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight | |
| Till our scale turns the beam. O rose of May! | 132 |
| Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! | |
| O heavens! is’t possible, a young maid’s wits | |
| Should be as mortal as an old man’s life? | |
| Nature is fine 20 in love, and where ’tis fine, | 136 |
| It sends some precious instance 21 of itself | |
| After the thing it loves. | |
Oph. [Sings.]| | “They bore him barefac’d on the bier; |
| Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny; |
| And on his grave rains many a tear,”— |
| |
| Fare you well, my dove! | 140 |
| Laer. Hadst thou thy wits and didst persuade revenge, | |
| It could not move thus. | |
| Oph. You must sing, “Down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.” O, how the wheel becomes it! 22 It is the false steward, that stole his master’s daughter. | |
| Laer. This nothing’s more than matter. | 144 |
| Oph. There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember; and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts. | |
| Laer. A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted. | |
Oph. There’s fennel for you, and columbines; there’s rue for you, and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died. They say he made a good end,— [Sings.]| | “For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.” |
| |
| Laer. Thought 23 and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favour and to prettiness. | 148 |
Oph. [Sings.]| | “And will he not come again? |
| And will he not come again? |
| No, no, he is dead; |
| Go to thy death-bed; |
| He never will come again. |
| |
| “His beard as white as snow, |
| All flaxen was his poll. |
| He is gone, he is gone, |
| And we cast away moan. |
| God ha’ mercy on his soul!” |
| |
| And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God buy ye. Exit. | |
| Laer. Do you see this, you gods? | |
| King. Laertes, I must commune with your grief, | 152 |
| 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. | |
| If by direct or by collateral hand | 156 |
| They find us touch’d, 24 we will our kingdom give, | |
| Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours, | |
| To you in satisfaction; but if not, | |
| Be you content to lend your patience to us, | 160 |
| And we shall jointly labour with your soul | |
| To give it due content. | |
| Laer. Let this be so. | |
| His means of death, his obscure burial— | 164 |
| No trophy, sword, nor hatchment 25 o’er his bones, | |
| No noble rite nor formal ostentation— | |
| Cry to be heard, as ’t were from heaven to earth, | |
| That I must call ’t in question. | 168 |
| King. So you shall; | |
| And where the offence is let the great axe fall. | |
| I pray you, go with me. Exeunt. | |
