[Enter Gertrude and Horatio.]
I will not speak with her.
Indeed distract. Her mood will needs be pitied.
She speaks much of her father, says she hears
There's tricks i'th' world, and hems, and beats her heart,
Spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in doubt
That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing,
Yet the unshapèd use of it doth move
The hearers to collection. They aim at it,
And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts,
Which — as her winks and nods and gestures yield them —
Indeed would make one think there would be thought,
Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.
'Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strew
Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.
[Aside] To my sick soul, as sin's true nature is,
Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
[Enter Ophelia, distracted.]
Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?
[She sings a love ballad.]
How should I your true love know
By his cockle hat and staff,
Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?
Say you? Nay, pray you, mark.
He is dead and gone, lady,
At his head a grass-green turf,
White his shroud as the mountain snow
Alas, look here, my lord.
Larded with sweet flowers,
Which bewept to the ground did not go
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!
Pray you, let's have no words of this, but when
they ask you what it means, say you this:
Tomorrow is Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
Then up he rose, and donned his clothes,
And dupped the chamber door,
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Indeed, la! Without an oath I'll make an end on't.
By Gis and by Saint Charity,
Alack, and fie for shame!
Young men will do't if they come to't;
By Cock, they are to blame.
Quoth she, "Before you tumbled me,
"So would I ha' done, by yonder sun,
An thou hadst not come to my bed."
How long hath she been thus?
I hope all will be well. We must be patient. But I
cannot choose but weep to think they should lay him i'th'
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.
[To Horatio.] Follow her close. Give her good watch, I pray you.
Oh, this is the poison of deep grief! It springs
All from her father's death. Oh, 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
Of his own just remove. The people muddied,
Thick and unwholesome in thoughts and whispers
For good Polonius’s death. And we have done but greenly
In hugger-mugger to inter him. Poor Ophelia,
Divided from herself and her fair judgment,
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,
Feeds on this 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 beggared,
Will nothing stick our persons to arraign
In ear and ear. Oh, my dear Gertrude, this,
Like to a murdering piece, in many places
Gives me superfluous death.
[A noise within. Enter a Messenger.]
Alack, what noise is this?
Attend! Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door.
The ocean, overpeering of his list,
Eats not the flats with more impiteous haste
Than young Laertes, in a riotous head,
O'erbears your officers. The rabble call him Lord.
And as the world were now but to begin,
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.
"Laertes shall be king, Laertes king!"
How cheerfully on the false trail they cry!
Oh, this is counter, you false Danish dogs!
[Enter Laertes, armed, with Danes following.]
Where is this king? [To his followers] Sirs, stand you all without.
[Offstage] No, let's come in.
I pray you, give me leave.
I thank you. Keep the door.
[To Claudius] Oh thou vile king,
That drop of blood that's calm proclaims me bastard,
Cries "Cuckold!" to my father, brands the harlot
Even here between the chaste unsmirchèd brow
What is the cause, Laertes,
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,
Acts little of his will. Tell me, Laertes,
Why thou art thus incensed? Let him go, Gertrude.
How came he dead? I'll not be juggled with.
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.
Let come what comes, only I'll be revenged
Most throughly for my father.
My will, not all the world.
And for my means, I'll husband them so well
They shall go far with little.
If you desire to know the certainty
Of your dear father's death, is't writ in your revenge
That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and foe,
Will you know them, then?
To his good friends, thus wide I'll ope my arms,
And, like the kind life-rend'ring pelican,
Repast them with my blood.
Like a good child and a true gentleman.
That I am guiltless of your father's death,
And am most sensible in grief for it,
It shall as level to your judgment pierce,
[A noise within.]
How now, what noise is that?
Oh 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. Oh rose of May,
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!
Oh heavens, is't possible a young maid's wits
Should be as mortal as a poor man's life?
Nature is fine in love, and where 'tis fine
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves.
They bore him bare-faced on the bier,
Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny,
And in his grave rains many a tear.
Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge,
You must sing "down, a-down," an you call
him "a-down-a." Oh, how the wheel becomes it!
It is thefalse steward that stole his master's daughter.
This nothing's more than matter.
[Handing out flowers]
There's rosemary, that's for remembrance.
Pray, love, remember. And there is pansies,
A document in madness — thoughts and remembrance fitted.
There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for
you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb-grace
Of Sundays. Oh, you must wear your rue with a
difference. There's a daisy. I would give you some violets,
but they withered all when my father died. They say he
For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself —
She turns to favor and to prettiness.
And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
He never will come again.
His beard as white as snow,
God have mercy on his soul!
And of all Christians' souls, I pray God. God buy you!
[Exit Ophelia and Gertrude.]
Do you see this, you gods?
Laertes, I must commune with your grief,
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,
They find us touched, 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,
And we shall jointly labor with your soul
His means of death, his obscure burial:
No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o'er his bones,
No noble rite, nor formal ostentation.
Cry to be heard as 'twere from heaven to earth,
That I must call in question.
And where th' offense is, let the great ax fall.