Like quills upon the fretful porcupine:
But this eternal blazon* must not be
To ears of flesh and blood:-List, list, O list!—
If ever thou didst thy dear father love.
Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural mur der.
Ghost. Murder most foul, as in the best it is; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
Ham. Haste me to know it; that I, with wings as swift
As meditation, or the thoughts of love,
May sweep to my revenge.
And duller should'st thou be than the fat weed
That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,
Would'st thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear
'Tis given out, that sleeping in my orchard,t.
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.
Ham. O, my prophetic soul! my 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
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 mine orchard,
My custom always of the afternoon,
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole,
With juice of cursed hebenont in a vial,
And in the porches of mine 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 tertte‡ bark'd about,
Most lazar-like, 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 despatch'd:
Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,
Unhousel'd, 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 heaver;
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.
¶ Without having received the Sacrament
** Unappointed, unprepared.
tt Without extreme unction.
Ham. O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else?
And shall I couple hell?-O fie!-Hold, hold, my heart;
And you, my sinews, grow not instant old,
But bear me stifly 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 sawst 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,t-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.
OPHELIA'S DESCRIPTION OF HAMLET'S MAD
ADDRESS TO HER.
My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,
Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac'd;
No hat upon his head; his stockings foul'd,
Ungarter'd, 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.
Pol. Mad for thy love?
But, truly, I do fear it.
+ Memorandum-book.
§ Hanging down like fetters.
Oph. 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 helps,
And, to the last, bended their light on me.
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
HAPPINESS CONSISTS IN OPINION.
Why, then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so; to me it is a prison.
I have of late, (but, wherefore, I know not,) lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises: and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why it appears no other thing to me, than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in apprehension, how like
god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me, nor woman neither; though, by your smiling, you seem to say so.
HAMLET'S REFLECTIONS ON THE PLAYER AND
O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
Is it not monstrous, that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul to his own conceit.
That from her working, all his visage wann'd;
Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing!
For Hecuba!
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he, should weep for her? What would he do,
Had he the motive and the cue for passion
That I have? He would drown the stage with tears,
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech;
Make mad the guilty, and appal the free,
Confound the ignorant; and amaze, indeed,
The very faculties of eyes and ears.
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak,
Like John a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing; no, not for a king,
Upon whose property, and most dear life,
A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward?
Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across?
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face?
Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie ith
throat,
As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this?
Ha!
Why, I should take it: for it cannot be,
But I am pigeon liver'd, and lack gall
To make oppression bitter; or, ere this,
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave's offal: Bloody, bawdy villain!
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain
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