Act V, Scene V — Britain. Cymbeline’s tent
Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, Lords, Officers and Attendants.
CYMBELINE. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart That the poor soldier that so richly fought, Whose rags sham’d gilded arms, whose naked breast Stepp’d before targes of proof, cannot be found. He shall be happy that can find him, if Our grace can make him so.
BELARIUS. I never saw Such noble fury in so poor a thing; Such precious deeds in one that promis’d nought But beggary and poor looks.
CYMBELINE. No tidings of him?
PISANIO. He hath been search’d among the dead and living, But no trace of him.
CYMBELINE. To my grief, I am The heir of his reward, [To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus] which I will add To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain, By whom I grant she lives. ’Tis now the time To ask of whence you are. Report it.
BELARIUS. Sir, In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen; Further to boast were neither true nor modest, Unless I add we are honest.
CYMBELINE. Bow your knees. Arise my knights o’ th’ battle; I create you Companions to our person, and will fit you With dignities becoming your estates.
Enter Cornelius and Ladies.
There’s business in these faces. Why so sadly Greet you our victory? You look like Romans, And not o’ th’ court of Britain.
CORNELIUS. Hail, great King! To sour your happiness I must report The Queen is dead.
CYMBELINE. Who worse than a physician Would this report become? But I consider By med’cine life may be prolong’d, yet death Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?
CORNELIUS. With horror, madly dying, like her life; Which, being cruel to the world, concluded Most cruel to herself. What she confess’d I will report, so please you; these her women Can trip me if I err, who with wet cheeks Were present when she finish’d.
CYMBELINE. Prithee say.
CORNELIUS. First, she confess’d she never lov’d you; only Affected greatness got by you, not you; Married your royalty, was wife to your place; Abhorr’d your person.
CYMBELINE. She alone knew this; And but she spoke it dying, I would not Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.
CORNELIUS. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love With such integrity, she did confess Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life, But that her flight prevented it, she had Ta’en off by poison.
CYMBELINE. O most delicate fiend! Who is’t can read a woman? Is there more?
CORNELIUS. More, sir, and worse. She did confess she had For you a mortal mineral, which, being took, Should by the minute feed on life, and ling’ring, By inches waste you. In which time she purpos’d, By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to O’ercome you with her show; and in time, When she had fitted you with her craft, to work Her son into th’ adoption of the crown; But failing of her end by his strange absence, Grew shameless-desperate, open’d, in despite Of heaven and men, her purposes, repented The evils she hatch’d were not effected; so, Despairing, died.
CYMBELINE. Heard you all this, her women?
LADIES. We did, so please your Highness.
CYMBELINE. Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her; yet, O my daughter! That it was folly in me thou mayst say, And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!
Enter Lucius, Iachimo, the Soothsayer and other Roman prisoners, guarded; Posthumus behind, and Imogen.
Thou com’st not, Caius, now for tribute; that The Britons have raz’d out, though with the loss Of many a bold one, whose kinsmen have made suit That their good souls may be appeas’d with slaughter Of you their captives, which ourself have granted; So think of your estate.
LUCIUS. Consider, sir, the chance of war. The day Was yours by accident; had it gone with us, We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten’d Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives May be call’d ransom, let it come. Sufficeth A Roman with a Roman’s heart can suffer. Augustus lives to think on’t; and so much For my peculiar care. This one thing only I will entreat: my boy, a Briton born, Let him be ransom’d. Never master had A page so kind, so duteous, diligent, So tender over his occasions, true, So feat, so nurse-like; let his virtue join With my request, which I’ll make bold your Highness Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm Though he have serv’d a Roman. Save him, sir, And spare no blood beside.
CYMBELINE. I have surely seen him; His favour is familiar to me. Boy, Thou hast look’d thyself into my grace, And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore To say “Live, boy.” Ne’er thank thy master. Live; And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, Fitting my bounty and thy state, I’ll give it; Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, The noblest ta’en.
IMOGEN. I humbly thank your Highness.
LUCIUS. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad, And yet I know thou wilt.
IMOGEN. No, no! Alack, There’s other work in hand. I see a thing Bitter to me as death; your life, good master, Must shuffle for itself.
LUCIUS. The boy disdains me, He leaves me, scorns me. Briefly die their joys That place them on the truth of girls and boys. Why stands he so perplex’d?
CYMBELINE. What wouldst thou, boy? I love thee more and more; think more and more What’s best to ask. Know’st him thou look’st on? Speak, Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend?
IMOGEN. He is a Roman, no more kin to me Than I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal, Am something nearer.
CYMBELINE. Wherefore ey’st him so?
IMOGEN. I’ll tell you, sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing.
CYMBELINE. Ay, with all my heart, And lend my best attention. What’s thy name?
IMOGEN. Fidele, sir.
CYMBELINE. Thou’rt my good youth, my page; I’ll be thy master. Walk with me; speak freely.
[Cymbeline and Imogen converse apart.]
BELARIUS. Is not this boy reviv’d from death?
ARVIRAGUS. One sand another Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad Who died and was Fidele. What think you?
GUIDERIUS. The same dead thing alive.
BELARIUS. Peace, peace! see further. He eyes us not; forbear. Creatures may be alike; were’t he, I am sure He would have spoke to us.
GUIDERIUS. But we see him dead.
BELARIUS. Be silent; let’s see further.
PISANIO. [Aside.] It is my mistress. Since she is living, let the time run on To good or bad.
[Cymbeline and Imogen advance.]
CYMBELINE. Come, stand thou by our side; Make thy demand aloud. [To Iachimo.] Sir, step you forth; Give answer to this boy, and do it freely, Or, by our greatness and the grace of it, Which is our honour, bitter torture shall Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him.
IMOGEN. My boon is that this gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring.
POSTHUMUS. [Aside.] What’s that to him?
CYMBELINE. That diamond upon your finger, say How came it yours?
IACHIMO. Thou’lt torture me to leave unspoken that Which to be spoke would torture thee.
CYMBELINE. How? me?
IACHIMO. I am glad to be constrain’d to utter that Which torments me to conceal. By villainy I got this ring; ’twas Leonatus’ jewel, Whom thou didst banish; and—which more may grieve thee, As it doth me—a nobler sir ne’er liv’d ’Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord?
CYMBELINE. All that belongs to this.
IACHIMO. That paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood and my false spirits Quail to remember—Give me leave, I faint.
CYMBELINE. My daughter? What of her? Renew thy strength; I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak.
IACHIMO. Upon a time, unhappy was the clock That struck the hour: was in Rome, accurs’d The mansion where: ’twas at a feast, O, would Our viands had been poison’d (or at least Those which I heav’d to head) the good Posthumus (What should I say? he was too good to be Where ill men were, and was the best of all Amongst the rar’st of good ones) sitting sadly Hearing us praise our loves of Italy For beauty that made barren the swell’d boast Of him that best could speak; for feature, laming The shrine of Venus or straight-pight Minerva, Postures beyond brief nature; for condition, A shop of all the qualities that man Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving, Fairness which strikes the eye.
CYMBELINE. I stand on fire. Come to the matter.
IACHIMO. All too soon I shall, Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus, Most like a noble lord in love and one That had a royal lover, took his hint; And (not dispraising whom we prais’d, therein He was as calm as virtue) he began His mistress’ picture; which by his tongue being made, And then a mind put in’t, either our brags Were crack’d of kitchen trulls, or his description Prov’d us unspeaking sots.
CYMBELINE. Nay, nay, to th’ purpose.
IACHIMO. Your daughter’s chastity (there it begins) He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams And she alone were cold; whereat I, wretch, Made scruple of his praise, and wager’d with him Pieces of gold ’gainst this which then he wore Upon his honour’d finger, to attain In suit the place of’s bed, and win this ring By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight, No lesser of her honour confident Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring; And would so, had it been a carbuncle Of Phoebus’ wheel; and might so safely, had it Been all the worth of’s car. Away to Britain Post I in this design. Well may you, sir, Remember me at court, where I was taught Of your chaste daughter the wide difference ’Twixt amorous and villainous. Being thus quench’d Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain Gan in your duller Britain operate Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent; And, to be brief, my practice so prevail’d That I return’d with simular proof enough To make the noble Leonatus mad, By wounding his belief in her renown With tokens thus and thus; averring notes Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet (O cunning, how I got it!) nay, some marks Of secret on her person, that he could not But think her bond of chastity quite crack’d, I having ta’en the forfeit. Whereupon Methinks I see him now—
POSTHUMUS. [Coming forward.] Ay, so thou dost, Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool, Egregious murderer, thief, anything That’s due to all the villains past, in being, To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison, Some upright justicer! Thou, King, send out For torturers ingenious. It is I That all th’ abhorred things o’ th’ earth amend By being worse than they. I am Posthumus, That kill’d thy daughter; villain-like, I lie; That caus’d a lesser villain than myself, A sacrilegious thief, to do’t. The temple Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself. Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set The dogs o’ th’ street to bay me. Every villain Be call’d Posthumus Leonatus, and Be villainy less than ’twas! O Imogen! My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen!
IMOGEN. Peace, my lord. Hear, hear!
POSTHUMUS. Shall’s have a play of this? Thou scornful page, There lies thy part.
[Strikes her. She falls.]
PISANIO. O gentlemen, help! Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus! You ne’er kill’d Imogen till now. Help, help! Mine honour’d lady!
CYMBELINE. Does the world go round?
POSTHUMUS. How comes these staggers on me?
PISANIO. Wake, my mistress!
CYMBELINE. If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me To death with mortal joy.
PISANIO. How fares my mistress?
IMOGEN. O, get thee from my sight; Thou gav’st me poison. Dangerous fellow, hence! Breathe not where princes are.
CYMBELINE. The tune of Imogen!
PISANIO. Lady, The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if That box I gave you was not thought by me A precious thing! I had it from the Queen.
CYMBELINE. New matter still?
IMOGEN. It poison’d me.
CORNELIUS. O gods! I left out one thing which the Queen confess’d, Which must approve thee honest. ‘If Pisanio Have’ said she ‘given his mistress that confection Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv’d As I would serve a rat.’
CYMBELINE. What’s this, Cornelius?
CORNELIUS. The Queen, sir, very oft importun’d me To temper poisons for her; still pretending The satisfaction of her knowledge only In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs, Of no esteem. I, dreading that her purpose Was of more danger, did compound for her A certain stuff, which, being ta’en would cease The present pow’r of life, but in short time All offices of nature should again Do their due functions. Have you ta’en of it?
IMOGEN. Most like I did, for I was dead.
BELARIUS. My boys, There was our error.
GUIDERIUS. This is sure Fidele.
IMOGEN. Why did you throw your wedded lady from you? Think that you are upon a rock, and now Throw me again.
[Embracing him.]
POSTHUMUS. Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!
CYMBELINE. How now, my flesh? my child? What, mak’st thou me a dullard in this act? Wilt thou not speak to me?
IMOGEN. [Kneeling.] Your blessing, sir.
BELARIUS. [To Guiderius and Arviragus.] Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not; You had a motive for’t.
CYMBELINE. My tears that fall Prove holy water on thee! Imogen, Thy mother’s dead.
IMOGEN. I am sorry for’t, my lord.
CYMBELINE. O, she was naught, and long of her it was That we meet here so strangely; but her son Is gone, we know not how nor where.
PISANIO. My lord, Now fear is from me, I’ll speak troth. Lord Cloten, Upon my lady’s missing, came to me With his sword drawn, foam’d at the mouth, and swore, If I discover’d not which way she was gone, It was my instant death. By accident I had a feigned letter of my master’s Then in my pocket, which directed him To seek her on the mountains near to Milford; Where, in a frenzy, in my master’s garments, Which he enforc’d from me, away he posts With unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate My lady’s honour. What became of him I further know not.
GUIDERIUS. Let me end the story: I slew him there.
CYMBELINE. Marry, the gods forfend! I would not thy good deeds should from my lips Pluck a hard sentence. Prithee, valiant youth, Deny’t again.
GUIDERIUS. I have spoke it, and I did it.
CYMBELINE. He was a prince.
GUIDERIUS. A most incivil one. The wrongs he did me Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me With language that would make me spurn the sea, If it could so roar to me. I cut off’s head, And am right glad he is not standing here To tell this tale of mine.
CYMBELINE. I am sorry for thee. By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and must Endure our law. Thou’rt dead.
IMOGEN. That headless man I thought had been my lord.
CYMBELINE. Bind the offender, And take him from our presence.
BELARIUS. Stay, sir King. This man is better than the man he slew, As well descended as thyself, and hath More of thee merited than a band of Clotens Had ever scar for. [To the guard.] Let his arms alone; They were not born for bondage.
CYMBELINE. Why, old soldier, Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for By tasting of our wrath? How of descent As good as we?
ARVIRAGUS. In that he spake too far.
CYMBELINE. And thou shalt die for’t.
BELARIUS. We will die all three; But I will prove that two on’s are as good As I have given out him. My sons, I must For mine own part unfold a dangerous speech, Though haply well for you.
ARVIRAGUS. Your danger’s ours.
GUIDERIUS. And our good his.
BELARIUS. Have at it then by leave! Thou hadst, great King, a subject who Was call’d Belarius.
CYMBELINE. What of him? He is A banish’d traitor.
BELARIUS. He it is that hath Assum’d this age; indeed a banish’d man; I know not how a traitor.
CYMBELINE. Take him hence, The whole world shall not save him.
BELARIUS. Not too hot. First pay me for the nursing of thy sons, And let it be confiscate all, so soon As I have receiv’d it.
CYMBELINE. Nursing of my sons?
BELARIUS. I am too blunt and saucy: here’s my knee. Ere I arise I will prefer my sons; Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir, These two young gentlemen that call me father, And think they are my sons, are none of mine; They are the issue of your loins, my liege, And blood of your begetting.
CYMBELINE. How? my issue?
BELARIUS. So sure as you your father’s. I, old Morgan, Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish’d. Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer’d Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes (For such and so they are) these twenty years Have I train’d up; those arts they have as I Could put into them. My breeding was, sir, as Your Highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile, Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children Upon my banishment; I mov’d her to’t, Having receiv’d the punishment before For that which I did then. Beaten for loyalty Excited me to treason. Their dear loss, The more of you ’twas felt, the more it shap’d Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir, Here are your sons again, and I must lose Two of the sweet’st companions in the world. The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars.
CYMBELINE. Thou weep’st and speak’st. The service that you three have done is more Unlike than this thou tell’st. I lost my children. If these be they, I know not how to wish A pair of worthier sons.
BELARIUS. Be pleas’d awhile. This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius; This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus, Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp’d In a most curious mantle, wrought by th’ hand Of his queen mother, which for more probation I can with ease produce.
CYMBELINE. Guiderius had Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star; It was a mark of wonder.
BELARIUS. This is he, Who hath upon him still that natural stamp. It was wise nature’s end in the donation, To be his evidence now.
CYMBELINE. O, what am I? A mother to the birth of three? Ne’er mother Rejoic’d deliverance more. Blest pray you be, That, after this strange starting from your orbs, You may reign in them now! O Imogen, Thou hast lost by this a kingdom.
IMOGEN. No, my lord; I have got two worlds by’t. O my gentle brothers, Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter But I am truest speaker! You call’d me brother, When I was but your sister: I you brothers, When we were so indeed.
CYMBELINE. Did you e’er meet?
ARVIRAGUS. Ay, my good lord.
GUIDERIUS. And at first meeting lov’d, Continu’d so until we thought he died.
CORNELIUS. By the Queen’s dram she swallow’d.
CYMBELINE. O rare instinct! When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgement Hath to it circumstantial branches, which Distinction should be rich in. Where? how liv’d you? And when came you to serve our Roman captive? How parted with your brothers? how first met them? Why fled you from the court? and whither? These, And your three motives to the battle, with I know not how much more, should be demanded, And all the other by-dependances, From chance to chance; but nor the time nor place Will serve our long interrogatories. See, Posthumus anchors upon Imogen; And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting Each object with a joy; the counterchange Is severally in all. Let’s quit this ground, And smoke the temple with our sacrifices. [To Belarius.] Thou art my brother; so we’ll hold thee ever.
IMOGEN. You are my father too, and did relieve me To see this gracious season.
CYMBELINE. All o’erjoy’d Save these in bonds. Let them be joyful too, For they shall taste our comfort.
IMOGEN. My good master, I will yet do you service.
LUCIUS. Happy be you!
CYMBELINE. The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought, He would have well becom’d this place and grac’d The thankings of a king.
POSTHUMUS. I am, sir, The soldier that did company these three In poor beseeming; ’twas a fitment for The purpose I then follow’d. That I was he, Speak, Iachimo. I had you down, and might Have made you finish.
IACHIMO. [Kneeling.] I am down again; But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee, As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you, Which I so often owe; but your ring first, And here the bracelet of the truest princess That ever swore her faith.
POSTHUMUS. Kneel not to me. The pow’r that I have on you is to spare you; The malice towards you to forgive you. Live, And deal with others better.
CYMBELINE. Nobly doom’d! We’ll learn our freeness of a son-in-law; Pardon’s the word to all.
ARVIRAGUS. You holp us, sir, As you did mean indeed to be our brother; Joy’d are we that you are.
POSTHUMUS. Your servant, Princes. Good my lord of Rome, Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, methought Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back’d, Appear’d to me, with other spritely shows Of mine own kindred. When I wak’d, I found This label on my bosom; whose containing Is so from sense in hardness that I can Make no collection of it. Let him show His skill in the construction.
LUCIUS. Philarmonus!
SOOTHSAYER. Here, my good lord.
LUCIUS. Read, and declare the meaning.
SOOTHSAYER. [Reads.] When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac’d by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty. Thou, Leonatus, art the lion’s whelp; The fit and apt construction of thy name, Being Leo-natus, doth import so much. [To Cymbeline] The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter, Which we call mollis aer, and mollis aer We term it mulier; which mulier I divine Is this most constant wife, who even now Answering the letter of the oracle, Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp’d about With this most tender air.
CYMBELINE. This hath some seeming.
SOOTHSAYER. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, Personates thee; and thy lopp’d branches point Thy two sons forth, who, by Belarius stol’n, For many years thought dead, are now reviv’d, To the majestic cedar join’d, whose issue Promises Britain peace and plenty.
CYMBELINE. Well, My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius, Although the victor, we submit to Cæsar And to the Roman empire, promising To pay our wonted tribute, from the which We were dissuaded by our wicked queen, Whom heavens in justice, both on her and hers, Have laid most heavy hand.
SOOTHSAYER. The fingers of the pow’rs above do tune The harmony of this peace. The vision Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke Of yet this scarce-cold battle, at this instant Is full accomplish’d; for the Roman eagle, From south to west on wing soaring aloft, Lessen’d herself and in the beams o’ th’ sun So vanish’d; which foreshow’d our princely eagle, Th’ imperial Cæsar, should again unite His favour with the radiant Cymbeline, Which shines here in the west.
CYMBELINE. Laud we the gods; And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils From our bless’d altars. Publish we this peace To all our subjects. Set we forward; let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly together. So through Lud’s Town march; And in the temple of great Jupiter Our peace we’ll ratify; seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were wash’d, with such a peace.
[Exeunt.]
THE TRAGEDY OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK
Dramatis Personæ
HAMLET, Prince of Denmark CLAUDIUS, King of Denmark, Hamlet’s uncle The GHOST of the late king, Hamlet’s father GERTRUDE, the Queen, Hamlet’s mother, now wife of Claudius POLONIUS, Lord Chamberlain LAERTES, Son to Polonius OPHELIA, Daughter to Polonius HORATIO, Friend to Hamlet FORTINBRAS, Prince of Norway VOLTEMAND, Courtier CORNELIUS, Courtier ROSENCRANTZ, Courtier GUILDENSTERN, Courtier MARCELLUS, Officer BARNARDO, Officer FRANCISCO, a Soldier OSRIC, Courtier REYNALDO, Servant to Polonius Players A Gentleman, Courtier A Priest Two Clowns, Grave-diggers A Captain English Ambassadors. Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Sailors, Messengers, and Attendants
SCENE. Elsinore.
Act I, Scene I — Elsinore. A platform before the Castle
Enter Francisco and Barnardo, two sentinels.
BARNARDO. Who’s there?
FRANCISCO. Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself.
BARNARDO. Long live the King!
FRANCISCO. Barnardo?
BARNARDO. He.
FRANCISCO. You come most carefully upon your hour.
BARNARDO. ’Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco.
FRANCISCO. For this relief much thanks. ’Tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart.
BARNARDO. Have you had quiet guard?
FRANCISCO. Not a mouse stirring.
BARNARDO. Well, good night. If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.
Enter Horatio and Marcellus.
FRANCISCO. I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who is there?
HORATIO. Friends to this ground.
MARCELLUS. And liegemen to the Dane.
FRANCISCO. Give you good night.
MARCELLUS. O, farewell, honest soldier, who hath reliev’d you?
FRANCISCO. Barnardo has my place. Give you good-night.
[Exit.]
MARCELLUS. Holla, Barnardo!
BARNARDO. Say, what, is Horatio there?
HORATIO. A piece of him.
BARNARDO. Welcome, Horatio. Welcome, good Marcellus.
MARCELLUS. What, has this thing appear’d again tonight?
BARNARDO. I have seen nothing.
MARCELLUS. Horatio says ’tis but our fantasy, And will not let belief take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us. Therefore I have entreated him along With us to watch the minutes of this night, That if again this apparition come He may approve our eyes and speak to it.
HORATIO. Tush, tush, ’twill not appear.
BARNARDO. Sit down awhile, And let us once again assail your ears, That are so fortified against our story, What we two nights have seen.
HORATIO. Well, sit we down, And let us hear Barnardo speak of this.
BARNARDO. Last night of all, When yond same star that’s westward from the pole, Had made his course t’illume that part of heaven Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself, The bell then beating one—
MARCELLUS. Peace, break thee off. Look where it comes again.
Enter Ghost.
BARNARDO. In the same figure, like the King that’s dead.
MARCELLUS. Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.
BARNARDO. Looks it not like the King? Mark it, Horatio.
HORATIO. Most like. It harrows me with fear and wonder.
BARNARDO It would be spoke to.
MARCELLUS. Question it, Horatio.
HORATIO. What art thou that usurp’st this time of night, Together with that fair and warlike form In which the majesty of buried Denmark Did sometimes march? By heaven I charge thee speak.
MARCELLUS. It is offended.
BARNARDO. See, it stalks away.
HORATIO. Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee speak!
[Exit Ghost.]
MARCELLUS. ’Tis gone, and will not answer.
BARNARDO. How now, Horatio! You tremble and look pale. Is not this something more than fantasy? What think you on’t?
HORATIO. Before my God, I might not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes.
MARCELLUS. Is it not like the King?
HORATIO. As thou art to thyself: Such was the very armour he had on When he th’ambitious Norway combated; So frown’d he once, when in an angry parle He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice. ’Tis strange.
MARCELLUS. Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour, With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.
HORATIO. In what particular thought to work I know not; But in the gross and scope of my opinion, This bodes some strange eruption to our state.
MARCELLUS. Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that knows, Why this same strict and most observant watch So nightly toils the subject of the land, And why such daily cast of brazen cannon And foreign mart for implements of war; Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task Does not divide the Sunday from the week. What might be toward, that this sweaty haste Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day: Who is’t that can inform me?
HORATIO. That can I; At least, the whisper goes so. Our last King, Whose image even but now appear’d to us, Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway, Thereto prick’d on by a most emulate pride, Dar’d to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet, For so this side of our known world esteem’d him, Did slay this Fortinbras; who by a seal’d compact, Well ratified by law and heraldry, Did forfeit, with his life, all those his lands Which he stood seiz’d of, to the conqueror; Against the which, a moiety competent Was gaged by our King; which had return’d To the inheritance of Fortinbras, Had he been vanquisher; as by the same cov’nant And carriage of the article design’d, His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras, Of unimproved mettle, hot and full, Hath in the skirts of Norway, here and there, Shark’d up a list of lawless resolutes, For food and diet, to some enterprise That hath a stomach in’t; which is no other, As it doth well appear unto our state, But to recover of us by strong hand And terms compulsatory, those foresaid lands So by his father lost. And this, I take it, Is the main motive of our preparations, The source of this our watch, and the chief head Of this post-haste and rummage in the land.
BARNARDO. I think it be no other but e’en so: Well may it sort that this portentous figure Comes armed through our watch so like the King That was and is the question of these wars.
HORATIO. A mote it is to trouble the mind’s eye. In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets; As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star, Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands, Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse. And even the like precurse of fierce events, As harbingers preceding still the fates And prologue to the omen coming on, Have heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our climatures and countrymen.
Re-enter Ghost.
But, soft, behold! Lo, where it comes again! I’ll cross it, though it blast me. Stay, illusion! If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, Speak to me. If there be any good thing to be done, That may to thee do ease, and grace to me, Speak to me. If thou art privy to thy country’s fate, Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid, O speak! Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death, Speak of it. Stay, and speak!
[The cock crows.]
Stop it, Marcellus!
MARCELLUS. Shall I strike at it with my partisan?
HORATIO. Do, if it will not stand.
BARNARDO. ’Tis here!
HORATIO. ’Tis here!
[Exit Ghost.]
MARCELLUS. ’Tis gone! We do it wrong, being so majestical, To offer it the show of violence, For it is as the air, invulnerable, And our vain blows malicious mockery.
BARNARDO. It was about to speak, when the cock crew.
HORATIO. And then it started, like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. I have heard The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of day; and at his warning, Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, Th’extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine. And of the truth herein This present object made probation.
MARCELLUS. It faded on the crowing of the cock. Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long; And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad, The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm; So hallow’d and so gracious is the time.
HORATIO. So have I heard, and do in part believe it. But look, the morn in russet mantle clad, Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastward hill. Break we our watch up, and by my advice, Let us impart what we have seen tonight Unto young Hamlet; for upon my life, This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him. Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, As needful in our loves, fitting our duty?
MARCELLUS. Let’s do’t, I pray, and I this morning know Where we shall find him most conveniently.
[Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene II — Elsinore. A room of state in the Castle
Enter Claudius King of Denmark, Gertrude the Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, Voltemand, Cornelius, Lords and Attendant.
KING. Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother’s death The memory be green, and that it us befitted To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom To be contracted in one brow of woe; Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature That we with wisest sorrow think on him, Together with remembrance of ourselves. Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen, Th’imperial jointress to this warlike state, Have we, as ’twere with a defeated joy, With one auspicious and one dropping eye, With mirth in funeral, and with dirge in marriage, In equal scale weighing delight and dole, Taken to wife; nor have we herein barr’d Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone With this affair along. For all, our thanks. Now follows, that you know young Fortinbras, Holding a weak supposal of our worth, Or thinking by our late dear brother’s death Our state to be disjoint and out of frame, Colleagued with this dream of his advantage, He hath not fail’d to pester us with message, Importing the surrender of those lands Lost by his father, with all bonds of law, To our most valiant brother. So much for him. Now for ourself and for this time of meeting: Thus much the business is: we have here writ To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras, Who, impotent and bed-rid, scarcely hears Of this his nephew’s purpose, to suppress His further gait herein; in that the levies, The lists, and full proportions are all made Out of his subject: and we here dispatch You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltemand, For bearers of this greeting to old Norway, Giving to you no further personal power To business with the King, more than the scope Of these dilated articles allow. Farewell; and let your haste commend your duty.
CORNELIUS and VOLTEMAND. In that, and all things, will we show our duty.
KING. We doubt it nothing: heartily farewell.
[Exeunt Voltemand and Cornelius.]
And now, Laertes, what’s the news with you? You told us of some suit. What is’t, Laertes? You cannot speak of reason to the Dane, And lose your voice. What wouldst thou beg, Laertes, That shall not be my offer, not thy asking? The head is not more native to the heart, The hand more instrumental to the mouth, Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father. What wouldst thou have, Laertes?
LAERTES. Dread my lord, Your leave and favour to return to France, From whence though willingly I came to Denmark To show my duty in your coronation; Yet now I must confess, that duty done, My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France, And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.
KING. Have you your father’s leave? What says Polonius?
POLONIUS. He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave By laboursome petition; and at last Upon his will I seal’d my hard consent. I do beseech you give him leave to go.
KING. Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will! But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son—
HAMLET. [Aside.] A little more than kin, and less than kind.
KING. How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
HAMLET. Not so, my lord, I am too much i’ the sun.
QUEEN. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust. Thou know’st ’tis common, all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.
HAMLET. Ay, madam, it is common.
QUEEN. If it be, Why seems it so particular with thee?
HAMLET. Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not seems. ’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc’d breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected haviour of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shows of grief, That can denote me truly. These indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play; But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
KING. ’Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father; But you must know, your father lost a father, That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound In filial obligation, for some term To do obsequious sorrow. But to persevere In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness. ’Tis unmanly grief, It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, An understanding simple and unschool’d; For what we know must be, and is as common As any the most vulgar thing to sense, Why should we in our peevish opposition Take it to heart? Fie, ’tis a fault to heaven, A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, To reason most absurd, whose common theme Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, From the first corse till he that died today, ‘This must be so.’ We pray you throw to earth This unprevailing woe, and think of us As of a father; for let the world take note You are the most immediate to our throne, And with no less nobility of love Than that which dearest father bears his son Do I impart toward you. For your intent In going back to school in Wittenberg, It is most retrograde to our desire: And we beseech you bend you to remain Here in the cheer and comfort of our eye, Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.
QUEEN. Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet. I pray thee stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.
HAMLET. I shall in all my best obey you, madam.
KING. Why, ’tis a loving and a fair reply. Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come; This gentle and unforc’d accord of Hamlet Sits smiling to my heart; in grace whereof, No jocund health that Denmark drinks today But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell, And the King’s rouse the heaven shall bruit again, Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away.
[Exeunt all but Hamlet.]
HAMLET. O that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d His canon ’gainst self-slaughter. O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on’t! Oh fie! ’tis an unweeded garden That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead—nay, not so much, not two: So excellent a king; that was to this Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on; and yet, within a month— Let me not think on’t—Frailty, thy name is woman! A little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she followed my poor father’s body Like Niobe, all tears.—Why she, even she— O God! A beast that wants discourse of reason Would have mourn’d longer,—married with mine uncle, My father’s brother; but no more like my father Than I to Hercules. Within a month, Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married. O most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to good. But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
Enter Horatio, Marcellus and Barnardo.
HORATIO. Hail to your lordship!
HAMLET. I am glad to see you well: Horatio, or I do forget myself.
HORATIO. The same, my lord, And your poor servant ever.
HAMLET. Sir, my good friend; I’ll change that name with you: And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?— Marcellus?
MARCELLUS. My good lord.
HAMLET. I am very glad to see you.—Good even, sir.— But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?
HORATIO. A truant disposition, good my lord.
HAMLET. I would not hear your enemy say so; Nor shall you do my ear that violence, To make it truster of your own report Against yourself. I know you are no truant. But what is your affair in Elsinore? We’ll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.
HORATIO. My lord, I came to see your father’s funeral.
HAMLET. I prithee do not mock me, fellow-student. I think it was to see my mother’s wedding.
HORATIO. Indeed, my lord, it follow’d hard upon.
HAMLET. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak’d meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio. My father,—methinks I see my father.
HORATIO. Where, my lord?
HAMLET. In my mind’s eye, Horatio.
HORATIO. I saw him once; he was a goodly king.
HAMLET. He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.
HORATIO. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.
HAMLET. Saw? Who?
HORATIO. My lord, the King your father.
HAMLET. The King my father!
HORATIO. Season your admiration for a while With an attent ear, till I may deliver Upon the witness of these gentlemen This marvel to you.
HAMLET. For God’s love let me hear.
HORATIO. Two nights together had these gentlemen, Marcellus and Barnardo, on their watch In the dead waste and middle of the night, Been thus encounter’d. A figure like your father, Armed at point exactly, cap-à-pie, Appears before them, and with solemn march Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk’d By their oppress’d and fear-surprised eyes, Within his truncheon’s length; whilst they, distill’d Almost to jelly with the act of fear, Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me In dreadful secrecy impart they did, And I with them the third night kept the watch, Where, as they had deliver’d, both in time, Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The apparition comes. I knew your father; These hands are not more like.
HAMLET. But where was this?
MARCELLUS. My lord, upon the platform where we watch.
HAMLET. Did you not speak to it?
HORATIO. My lord, I did; But answer made it none: yet once methought It lifted up it head, and did address Itself to motion, like as it would speak. But even then the morning cock crew loud, And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, And vanish’d from our sight.
HAMLET. ’Tis very strange.
HORATIO. As I do live, my honour’d lord, ’tis true; And we did think it writ down in our duty To let you know of it.
HAMLET. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. Hold you the watch tonight?
MARCELLUS and BARNARDO. We do, my lord.
HAMLET. Arm’d, say you?
Both. Arm’d, my lord.
HAMLET. From top to toe?
BOTH. My lord, from head to foot.
HAMLET. Then saw you not his face?
HORATIO. O yes, my lord, he wore his beaver up.
HAMLET. What, look’d he frowningly?
HORATIO. A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.
HAMLET. Pale, or red?
HORATIO. Nay, very pale.
HAMLET. And fix’d his eyes upon you?
HORATIO. Most constantly.
HAMLET. I would I had been there.
HORATIO. It would have much amaz’d you.
HAMLET. Very like, very like. Stay’d it long?
HORATIO. While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.
MARCELLUS and BARNARDO. Longer, longer.
HORATIO. Not when I saw’t.
HAMLET. His beard was grizzled, no?
HORATIO. It was, as I have seen it in his life, A sable silver’d.
HAMLET. I will watch tonight; Perchance ’twill walk again.
HORATIO. I warrant you it will.
HAMLET. If it assume my noble father’s person, I’ll speak to it, though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto conceal’d this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still; And whatsoever else shall hap tonight, Give it an understanding, but no tongue. I will requite your loves. So, fare ye well. Upon the platform ’twixt eleven and twelve, I’ll visit you.
ALL. Our duty to your honour.
HAMLET. Your loves, as mine to you: farewell.
[Exeunt Horatio, Marcellus and Barnardo.]
My father’s spirit in arms! All is not well; I doubt some foul play: would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.
[Exit.]
Act I, Scene III — A room in Polonius’s house
Enter Laertes and Ophelia.
LAERTES. My necessaries are embark’d. Farewell. And, sister, as the winds give benefit And convoy is assistant, do not sleep, But let me hear from you.
OPHELIA. Do you doubt that?
LAERTES. For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour, Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood; A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.
OPHELIA. No more but so?
LAERTES. Think it no more. For nature crescent does not grow alone In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes, The inward service of the mind and soul Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now, And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch The virtue of his will; but you must fear, His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own; For he himself is subject to his birth: He may not, as unvalu’d persons do, Carve for himself; for on his choice depends The sanctity and health of this whole state; And therefore must his choice be circumscrib’d Unto the voice and yielding of that body Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you, It fits your wisdom so far to believe it As he in his particular act and place May give his saying deed; which is no further Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal. Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain If with too credent ear you list his songs, Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open To his unmaster’d importunity. Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister; And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire. The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmask her beauty to the moon. Virtue itself ’scapes not calumnious strokes: The canker galls the infants of the spring Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d, And in the morn and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent. Be wary then, best safety lies in fear. Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.
OPHELIA. I shall th’effect of this good lesson keep As watchman to my heart. But good my brother, Do not as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst like a puff’d and reckless libertine Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, And recks not his own rede.
LAERTES. O, fear me not. I stay too long. But here my father comes.
Enter Polonius.
A double blessing is a double grace; Occasion smiles upon a second leave.
POLONIUS. Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame. The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, And you are stay’d for. There, my blessing with you.
[Laying his hand on Laertes’s head.]
And these few precepts in thy memory Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion’d thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch’d, unfledg’d comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Bear’t that th’opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgement. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be: For loan oft loses both itself and friend; And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all: to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell: my blessing season this in thee.
LAERTES. Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.
POLONIUS. The time invites you; go, your servants tend.
LAERTES. Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well What I have said to you.
OPHELIA. ’Tis in my memory lock’d, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.
LAERTES. Farewell.
[Exit.]
POLONIUS. What is’t, Ophelia, he hath said to you?
OPHELIA. So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.
POLONIUS. Marry, well bethought: ’Tis told me he hath very oft of late Given private time to you; and you yourself Have of your audience been most free and bounteous. If it be so,—as so ’tis put on me, And that in way of caution,—I must tell you You do not understand yourself so clearly As it behoves my daughter and your honour. What is between you? Give me up the truth.
OPHELIA. He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders Of his affection to me.
POLONIUS. Affection! Pooh! You speak like a green girl, Unsifted in such perilous circumstance. Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?
OPHELIA. I do not know, my lord, what I should think.
POLONIUS. Marry, I’ll teach you; think yourself a baby; That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay, Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly; Or,—not to crack the wind of the poor phrase, Running it thus,—you’ll tender me a fool.
OPHELIA. My lord, he hath importun’d me with love In honourable fashion.
POLONIUS. Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to.
OPHELIA. And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord, With almost all the holy vows of heaven.
POLONIUS. Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know, When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter, Giving more light than heat, extinct in both, Even in their promise, as it is a-making, You must not take for fire. From this time Be something scanter of your maiden presence; Set your entreatments at a higher rate Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet, Believe so much in him that he is young; And with a larger tether may he walk Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia, Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers, Not of that dye which their investments show, But mere implorators of unholy suits, Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds, The better to beguile. This is for all: 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’t, I charge you; come your ways.
OPHELIA. I shall obey, my lord.
[Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene IV — The platform
Enter Hamlet, Horatio and Marcellus.
HAMLET. The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.
HORATIO. It is a nipping and an eager air.
HAMLET. What hour now?
HORATIO. I think it lacks of twelve.
MARCELLUS. No, it is struck.
HORATIO. Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.
[A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off within.]
What does this mean, my lord?
HAMLET. The King doth wake tonight and takes his rouse, Keeps wassail, and the swaggering upspring reels; And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge.
HORATIO. Is it a custom?
HAMLET. Ay marry is’t; And to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom More honour’d in the breach than the observance. This heavy-headed revel east and west Makes us traduc’d and tax’d of other nations: They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase Soil our addition; and indeed it takes From our achievements, though perform’d at height, The pith and marrow of our attribute. So oft it chances in particular men That for some vicious mole of nature in them, As in their birth, wherein they are not guilty, Since nature cannot choose his origin, By their o’ergrowth of some complexion, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason; Or by some habit, that too much o’erleavens The form of plausive manners;—that these men, Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, Being Nature’s livery or Fortune’s star,— His virtues else,—be they as pure as grace, As infinite as man may undergo, Shall in the general censure take corruption From that particular fault. The dram of evil Doth all the noble substance of a doubt To his own scandal.
HORATIO. Look, my lord, it comes!
Enter Ghost.
HAMLET. Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou com’st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee. I’ll call thee Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane. O, answer me! Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell Why thy canoniz’d bones, hearsed in death, Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre, Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn’d, Hath op’d his ponderous and marble jaws To cast thee up again! What may this mean, That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel, Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous, and we fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls? Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do?
[Ghost beckons Hamlet.]
HORATIO. It beckons you to go away with it, As if it some impartment did desire To you alone.
MARCELLUS. Look with what courteous action It waves you to a more removed ground. But do not go with it.
HORATIO. No, by no means.
HAMLET. It will not speak; then will I follow it.
HORATIO. Do not, my lord.
HAMLET. Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin’s fee; And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself? It waves me forth again. I’ll follow it.
HORATIO. What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff That beetles o’er his base into the sea, And there assume some other horrible form Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason, And draw you into madness? Think of it. The very place puts toys of desperation, Without more motive, into every brain That looks so many fathoms to the sea And hears it roar beneath.
HAMLET. It waves me still. Go on, I’ll follow thee.
MARCELLUS. You shall not go, my lord.
HAMLET. Hold off your hands.
HORATIO. Be rul’d; you shall not go.
HAMLET. My fate cries out, And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.
[Ghost beckons.]
Still am I call’d. Unhand me, gentlemen.
[Breaking free from them.]
By heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me. I say, away!—Go on, I’ll follow thee.
[Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet.]
HORATIO. He waxes desperate with imagination.
MARCELLUS. Let’s follow; ’tis not fit thus to obey him.
HORATIO. Have after. To what issue will this come?
MARCELLUS. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
HORATIO. Heaven will direct it.
MARCELLUS. Nay, let’s follow him.
[Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene V — A more remote part of the Castle
Enter Ghost and Hamlet.
HAMLET. Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak, I’ll go no further.
GHOST. Mark me.
HAMLET. I will.
GHOST. My hour is almost come, When I to sulph’rous and tormenting flames Must render up myself.
HAMLET. Alas, poor ghost!
GHOST. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing To what I shall unfold.
HAMLET. Speak, I am bound to hear.
GHOST. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.
HAMLET. What?
GHOST. I am thy father’s spirit, Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night, And for the day confin’d to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature Are burnt and purg’d away. But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porpentine. But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list! If thou didst ever thy dear father love—
HAMLET. O God!
GHOST. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.
HAMLET. Murder!
GHOST. Murder most foul, as in the best it is; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
HAMLET. Haste me to know’t, that I, with wings as swift As meditation or the thoughts of love May sweep to my revenge.
GHOST. I find thee apt; And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear. ’Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard, A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark Is by a forged process of my death Rankly abus’d; but know, thou noble youth, The serpent that did sting thy father’s life Now wears his crown.
HAMLET. O my prophetic soul! Mine uncle!
GHOST. Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,— O wicked wit, and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!—won to his shameful lust The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen. O Hamlet, what a falling off was there, From me, whose love was of that dignity That it went hand in hand even with the vow I made to her in marriage; and to decline Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor To those of mine. But virtue, as it never will be mov’d, Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven; So lust, though to a radiant angel link’d, Will sate itself in a celestial bed And prey on garbage. But soft! methinks I scent the morning air; Brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard, My custom always of the afternoon, Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, And in the porches of my ears did pour The leperous distilment, whose effect Holds such an enmity with blood of man That swift as quicksilver it courses through The natural gates and alleys of the body; And with a sudden vigour it doth posset And curd, like eager droppings into milk, The thin and wholesome blood. So did it mine; And a most instant tetter bark’d about, Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust All my smooth body. Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand, Of life, of crown, of queen at once dispatch’d: Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, Unhous’led, disappointed, unanel’d; No reckoning made, but sent to my account With all my imperfections on my head. O horrible! O horrible! most horrible! If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not; Let not the royal bed of Denmark be A couch for luxury and damned incest. But howsoever thou pursu’st this act, Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once! The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, And ’gins to pale his uneffectual fire. Adieu, adieu, adieu. Remember me.
[Exit.]
HAMLET. O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else? And shall I couple hell? O, fie! Hold, my heart; And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee? Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat In this distracted globe. Remember thee? Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there; And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmix’d with baser matter. Yes, by heaven! O most pernicious woman! O villain, villain, smiling damned villain! My tables. Meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain! At least I am sure it may be so in Denmark.
[Writing.]
So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word; It is ‘Adieu, adieu, remember me.’ I have sworn’t.
HORATIO and MARCELLUS. [Within.] My lord, my lord.
MARCELLUS. [Within.] Lord Hamlet.
HORATIO. [Within.] Heaven secure him.
HAMLET. So be it!
MARCELLUS. [Within.] Illo, ho, ho, my lord!
HAMLET. Hillo, ho, ho, boy! Come, bird, come.
Enter Horatio and Marcellus.
MARCELLUS. How is’t, my noble lord?
HORATIO. What news, my lord?
HAMLET. O, wonderful!
HORATIO. Good my lord, tell it.
HAMLET. No, you’ll reveal it.
HORATIO. Not I, my lord, by heaven.
MARCELLUS. Nor I, my lord.
HAMLET. How say you then, would heart of man once think it?— But you’ll be secret?
HORATIO and MARCELLUS. Ay, by heaven, my lord.
HAMLET. There’s ne’er a villain dwelling in all Denmark But he’s an arrant knave.
HORATIO. There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave To tell us this.
HAMLET. Why, right; you are i’ the right; And so, without more circumstance at all, I hold it fit that we shake hands and part: You, as your business and desire shall point you,— For every man hath business and desire, Such as it is;—and for my own poor part, Look you, I’ll go pray.
HORATIO. These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.
HAMLET. I’m sorry they offend you, heartily; Yes faith, heartily.
HORATIO. There’s no offence, my lord.
HAMLET. Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio, And much offence too. Touching this vision here, It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you. For your desire to know what is between us, O’ermaster’t as you may. And now, good friends, As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers, Give me one poor request.
HORATIO. What is’t, my lord? We will.
HAMLET. Never make known what you have seen tonight.
HORATIO and MARCELLUS. My lord, we will not.
HAMLET. Nay, but swear’t.
HORATIO. In faith, my lord, not I.
MARCELLUS. Nor I, my lord, in faith.
HAMLET. Upon my sword.
MARCELLUS. We have sworn, my lord, already.
HAMLET. Indeed, upon my sword, indeed.
GHOST. [Cries under the stage.] Swear.
HAMLET. Ha, ha boy, sayst thou so? Art thou there, truepenny? Come on, you hear this fellow in the cellarage. Consent to swear.
HORATIO. Propose the oath, my lord.
HAMLET. Never to speak of this that you have seen. Swear by my sword.
GHOST. [Beneath.] Swear.
HAMLET. Hic et ubique? Then we’ll shift our ground. Come hither, gentlemen, And lay your hands again upon my sword. Never to speak of this that you have heard. Swear by my sword.
GHOST. [Beneath.] Swear.
HAMLET. Well said, old mole! Canst work i’ th’earth so fast? A worthy pioner! Once more remove, good friends.
HORATIO. O day and night, but this is wondrous strange.
HAMLET. And therefore as a stranger give it welcome. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But come, Here, as before, never, so help you mercy, How strange or odd soe’er I bear myself,— As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on— That you, at such times seeing me, never shall, With arms encumber’d thus, or this head-shake, Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, As ‘Well, we know’, or ‘We could and if we would’, Or ‘If we list to speak’; or ‘There be and if they might’, Or such ambiguous giving out, to note That you know aught of me:—this not to do. So grace and mercy at your most need help you, Swear.
GHOST. [Beneath.] Swear.
HAMLET. Rest, rest, perturbed spirit. So, gentlemen, With all my love I do commend me to you; And what so poor a man as Hamlet is May do t’express his love and friending to you, God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together, And still your fingers on your lips, I pray. The time is out of joint. O cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right. Nay, come, let’s go together.
[Exeunt.]
Act II, Scene I — A room in Polonius’s house
Enter Polonius and Reynaldo.
POLONIUS. Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.
REYNALDO. I will, my lord.
POLONIUS. You shall do marvellous wisely, good Reynaldo, Before you visit him, to make inquiry Of his behaviour.
REYNALDO. My lord, I did intend it.
POLONIUS. Marry, well said; very well said. Look you, sir, Enquire me first what Danskers are in Paris; And how, and who, what means, and where they keep, What company, at what expense; and finding By this encompassment and drift of question, That they do know my son, come you more nearer Than your particular demands will touch it. Take you as ’twere some distant knowledge of him, As thus, ‘I know his father and his friends, And in part him’—do you mark this, Reynaldo?
REYNALDO. Ay, very well, my lord.
POLONIUS. ‘And in part him, but,’ you may say, ‘not well; But if’t be he I mean, he’s very wild; Addicted so and so;’ and there put on him What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank As may dishonour him; take heed of that; But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips As are companions noted and most known To youth and liberty.
REYNALDO. As gaming, my lord?
POLONIUS. Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, Quarrelling, drabbing. You may go so far.
REYNALDO. My lord, that would dishonour him.
POLONIUS. Faith no, as you may season it in the charge. You must not put another scandal on him, That he is open to incontinency; That’s not my meaning: but breathe his faults so quaintly That they may seem the taints of liberty; The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind, A savageness in unreclaimed blood, Of general assault.
REYNALDO. But my good lord—
POLONIUS. Wherefore should you do this?
REYNALDO. Ay, my lord, I would know that.
POLONIUS. Marry, sir, here’s my drift, And I believe it is a fetch of warrant. You laying these slight sullies on my son, As ’twere a thing a little soil’d i’ th’ working, Mark you, Your party in converse, him you would sound, Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes The youth you breathe of guilty, be assur’d He closes with you in this consequence; ‘Good sir,’ or so; or ‘friend,’ or ‘gentleman’— According to the phrase or the addition Of man and country.
REYNALDO. Very good, my lord.
POLONIUS. And then, sir, does he this,— He does—What was I about to say? By the mass, I was about to say something. Where did I leave?
REYNALDO. At ‘closes in the consequence.’ At ‘friend or so,’ and ‘gentleman.’
POLONIUS. At ‘closes in the consequence’ ay, marry! He closes with you thus: ‘I know the gentleman, I saw him yesterday, or t’other day, Or then, or then, with such and such; and, as you say, There was he gaming, there o’ertook in’s rouse, There falling out at tennis’: or perchance, ‘I saw him enter such a house of sale’— Videlicet, a brothel, or so forth. See you now; Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth; And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, With windlasses, and with assays of bias, By indirections find directions out. So by my former lecture and advice Shall you my son. You have me, have you not?
REYNALDO. My lord, I have.
POLONIUS. God b’ wi’ you, fare you well.
REYNALDO. Good my lord.
POLONIUS. Observe his inclination in yourself.
REYNALDO. I shall, my lord.
POLONIUS. And let him ply his music.
REYNALDO. Well, my lord.
POLONIUS. Farewell.
[Exit Reynaldo.]
Enter Ophelia.
How now, Ophelia, what’s the matter?
OPHELIA. Alas, my lord, I have been so affrighted.
POLONIUS. With what, in the name of God?
OPHELIA. My lord, as I was sewing in my chamber, Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac’d, No hat upon his head, his stockings foul’d, Ungart’red, and down-gyved to his ankle, Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, And with a look so piteous in purport As if he had been loosed out of hell To speak of horrors, he comes before me.
POLONIUS. Mad for thy love?
OPHELIA. My lord, I do not know, but truly I do fear it.
POLONIUS. What said he?
OPHELIA. He took me by the wrist and held me hard; Then goes he to the length of all his arm; And with his other hand thus o’er his brow, He falls to such perusal of my face As he would draw it. Long stay’d he so, At last,—a little shaking of mine arm, And thrice his head thus waving up and down, He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound As it did seem to shatter all his bulk And end his being. That done, he lets me go, And with his head over his shoulder turn’d He seem’d to find his way without his eyes, For out o’ doors he went without their help, And to the last bended their light on me.
POLONIUS. Come, go with me. I will go seek the King. This is the very ecstasy of love, Whose violent property fordoes itself, And leads the will to desperate undertakings, As oft as any passion under heaven That does afflict our natures. I am sorry,— What, have you given him any hard words of late?
OPHELIA. No, my good lord; but as you did command, I did repel his letters and denied His access to me.
POLONIUS. That hath made him mad. I am sorry that with better heed and judgement I had not quoted him. I fear’d he did but trifle, And meant to wreck thee. But beshrew my jealousy! It seems it is as proper to our age To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions As it is common for the younger sort To lack discretion. Come, go we to the King. This must be known, which, being kept close, might move More grief to hide than hate to utter love.
[Exeunt.]