To keepe it felfe from noyance, but much more
That fpirit, vpon whose weale depends and rests
The liues of many, the ceffe of maiefty
Dies not alone; but like a gulfe doth draw
What's neere it, with it, or it is a maffie wheele
Fixt on the fomnet of the highest mount,
To whofe hugh fpokes, tenn thoufand leffer things
Are morteift and adioynd, which when it falls,
Each fmall annexment, pety confequence
Attends the boyftrous raine, neuer alone
Did the king figh, but a generall growne +.
King. Arme you I pray you to this fpeedy voiage,
For we will fetters put about this feare
Which now goes too free-footed.
Rof. We will haft vs.
Pol. My lord, he's going to his mothers clofet,
Behind the arras I'le conuay my felfe
To here the proffeffe, I'le warrant fhee'le tax him home,
And as you faid, and wifely was it fayd,
Tis meete that fome more audience then a mother,
Since nature makes them partiall, fhould ore-heare
The fpeech of vantage; fare you well my leige,
I'le call vpon you ere you go to bed.
And tell you what I know.
King. Thankes deere my lord.
O my offence is rancke, it fmels to heauen,
It hath the primall eldeft curfe vppont,
A brothers murther, pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will,
My stronger guilt defeats my ftronge entent
And like a man to double bufines bound,
I ftand in pause where I shall first beginne,
bough, buge. +grone.
And both neglect what if this curfed hand
Were thicker then it felfe with brothers blood,
Is there not raine enough in the fweete heauens
To wash it white as fnow? whereto ferues mercy
But to confront the vifage of offence?
And what's in praier but this two-fold force,
To be foreftalled ere we come to fall,
Or pardon being downe, then I'le looke vp.
My faults is past, but oh! what forme of prayer
Can ferue my turne? forgiue me my foule murther;
That cannot be fince I am still possest
Of thofe affects for which I did the murther;
My crowne, mine owne ambition, and my queene;
May one be pardoned and retaine th' offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offences guided + hand may fhow by iuftice,
And oft tis feene the wicked prize it felfe
Buyes out the law, but tis not fo aboue,
There is no fhuffing, there the action lies.
In his true nature, and we our felues compeld
Euen to the teeth and forehead of our faults
To giue in euidence: what then, what rests?
Try what repentance can, what can it not,
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?
O wretched state, O bofome blacke as death,
O limed foule, that ftruggling to be free,
Art more ingaged! helpe angles make affay,
Bow stubborne knees, and hart with ftrings of fteele,
Be foft as finnewes of the new borne babe,
Ham. Now might I doe it, but now a is a praying, And now Ile doo't, and fo a goes to heauen,
And fo am I reuendge, that would be fcand
A villaine kills my father, and for that,
I his fole fonne, doe this fame villaine fend
To heauen.
Why, this is bafe and filly.not reuendge,
A tooke my father grofely, full of bread,
Withall his crimes broad blowne as flush as May,
And how his audit ftands who knowes faue heauen,
But in our circumftance and courfe of thought,
Tis heauy with him and am I then reuendged
To take him in the purging of his foule,
When he is fit and feafoned for his paffage ?
No,
Vp fword, and know thou a more horrid hent,
When he is drunke, a fleepe, or in his rage,
Or in th' inceftious pleasure of his bed,
At game, a fwearing, or about fome act
That has no relish of faluation in't.
Then trip him that his heele mas kick at heauen,
And that his foule may be as damnd and blacke
As hell whereto it goes; my mother staies,
This phificke but prolongs thy fickly dáies.
King. My words fly vp, my thoughts remaine below
Words without thoughts neuer to heauen goe.
Enter Gertrard and Polonius.
Polo. A will come ftrait, looke you lay home to him,
Tell him his prancks haue beene too broad to beare with,
And that your grace hath fcreen'd and stood betweene
Much heate and him, Ile filence me euen heerė,
Pray you be round.
Ger. Ile waite you, feare me not, With-draw, I heare him comming.
Ham. Now mother, whats the matter?
Ger. Hamlet, thou haft thy father much offended.
Ham. Mother you haue my father much offended.
Ger. Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.
Ham. Goe goe, you question with a wicked tongue.
Ger. Why how now Hamlet?
Ham. What's the matter now?
Ger. Haue you forgot me?
Ham. No by the rood not fo,
You are the queene, your husbands brothers wife,
And would it were not fo, you are my mother.`
Ger. Nay then Ile fet those to you that can speake.
Ham. Come, come, and fit you downe, you shall not boudge,
You goe not till I set you vp a glasse
Where you may see the most part of you.
Ger. What wilt thou doe, thou wilt not murther me? Helpe hoe.
Ham. How now, a rat, dead for a duckat, dead.
Pol. O I am flaine.
Ger. O me, what haft thou done?
Ham. Nay I know not, is it the king?
Ger. O what a rafh and bloody deede is this.
Ham. A bloody deede, almost as bad good mother
As kill a king, and marry with his brother.
Ger. As kil a king.
Ham. I lady, it was my word.
Thou wretched, rafh, intruding foole farewell,
I tooke thee for thy better, take thy fortune,
Thou find'ft to bee too bufie is fome danger.
Leaue wringing of your hands, peace fit you downe,
And let me wring your heart, for fo I fhall
If it be made of penetrable stuffe,
If damned cuftome haue nor brafd it fo,
That it be proofe and bulwark against fence.
Ger. What haue I done, that thou dar'ft wagge thy tongue
In noyfe fo rude against me?
Ham. Such an act
That blurres the grace and blush of modefty,
Calls vertue hipocrit, takes of the rofe
From the fair forhead of an innocent loue,
And fets a blifter there, makes mariage vowes
As falfe as dicers oathes, Oh fuch a deed!
As from the body of contraction pluckes
The very foule and fweet religion makes
A rapfody of words; heauens face dooes glow
Ore this folidity and compound masse
With heated vifage, as against the doome
Is thought-fick at the act.
Quee. Ay me what act?
Ham. That roares fo low'de and thunders in the index,
Looke here vpon this picture, and on this,
The counterfeit prefentment of two brothers,
See what a grace was feated on his browe,
Hiperions curles, the front of Ioue him-felfe,
An eye like Mars, to threten and command,
A ftation like the herald Mercury,
New lighted on a heaue, a kiffing hill,
A combination and forme indeede,
Where euery god did feeme to fet his feale
To giue the world affurance of a man,
This was your husband, looke you now what followes,
Heere is your husband like a mildewed eare,
Blafting his wholesome brother: haue you eyes?
Could you on this faire mountaine leaue to feede,
And batton on this moore; ha, haue you eyes?
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