And then, sir, does ’a this — ’a does — what was I about to say? By the mass, I was about to say something. Where did I leave?

“To the celestial and my soul’s idol, the most beautified Ophelia” —

That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase, “beautified” is a vile phrase, but you shall hear: “thus in her excellent white bosom, these —” etc.

O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers. I have not art to reckon my groans, but that I love thee best — oh, most best — believe it. Adieu.

Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him, Hamlet.”

Well, God-a-mercy.

Do you know me, my lord?

Excellent <span class="folio"> ^F , excellent ^F </span> well, you are a fishmonger.

Not I, my lord.

Then I would you were so honest a man.

Honest, my lord?

Ay, sir, to be honest as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

That’s very true, my lord.

For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good kissing carrion — Have you a daughter?

I have, my lord.

Let her not walk i’th’sun: conception is a blessing, but as your daughter may conceive, friend, look to’t.

How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter. Yet he knew me not at first, ’a said I was a fishmonger. ’A is far gone, <span class="folio"> ^F far gone, ^F </span> and truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love, very near this. I’ll speak to him again.

Words, words, words.

What is the matter, my lord?

Between who?

I mean the matter that you read, my lord.

Slanders, sir; for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and plumtree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams; all which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down. For <span class="folio"> ^F you ^F </span> yourself, sir, shall grow old as I am: if like a crab you could go backward.

Though this be madness yet there is method in’t.

Into my grave.

Indeed, that’s out of the air.

How pregnant sometimes his replies are! A happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him, and my daughter.

You cannot <span class="folio"> ^F , sir, ^F </span> take from me anything that I will not more willingly part withal, except my life, except my life, except my life.

Fare you well, my lord.

These tedious old fools.

You go to seek the Lord Hamlet? There he is.

[To Polonius] God save you, sir.

My honoured lord.

My most dear lord.

My excellent good friends. How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do you both?

As the indifferent children of the earth.

Happy, in that we are not over-happy: on Fortune’s cap we are not the very button.

Nor the soles of her shoe.

Neither, my lord.

Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her favours.

Faith, her privates we.

In the secret parts of Fortune — Oh, most true, she is a strumpet. What news?

None, my lord, but the world’s grown honest.

Then is doomsday near. But your news is not true. <span class="folio"> ^F Let me question more in particular: what have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of Fortune that she sends you to prison hither? </span>

<span class="folio"> Prison, my lord? </span>

<span class="folio"> Denmark’s a prison. </span>

<span class="folio"> Then is the world one. </span>

<span class="folio"> A goodly one, in which there are many confines, wards and dungeons, Denmark being one o’th’worst. </span>

<span class="folio"> We think not so, my lord. </span>

<span class="folio"> 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. </span>

<span class="folio"> Why, then your ambition makes it one: ’tis too narrow for your mind. </span>

<span class="folio"> O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams. </span>

<span class="folio"> Which dreams indeed are ambition: for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. </span>

<span class="folio"> A dream itself is but a shadow. </span>

<span class="folio"> Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow’s shadow. </span>

<span class="folio"> Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and outstretched heroes the beggars’ shadows. Shall we to th’court? for, by my fay, I cannot reason. </span>

<span class="folio"> We’ll wait upon you. </span>

<span class="folio"> No such matter. I will not sort you with the rest of my servants; for, to speak to you like an honest man, I am most dreadfully attended. ^F </span> But, in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore?

To visit you, my lord, no other occasion.

Beggar that I am, I am ever poor in thanks, but I thank you, and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, come, deal justly with me. Come, come, nay, speak.

What should we say, my lord?

Anything but to th’purpose. You were sent for, and there is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties have not craft enough to colour. I know the good King and Queen have sent for you.

To what end, my lord?

That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer can charge you withal, be even and direct with me whether you were sent for or no.

What say you?

Nay then, I have an eye of you! If you love me, hold not off.

My lord, we were sent for.

I will tell you why, so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the King and Queen moult no feather. 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 appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. What piece of work is a 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 a god; the beauty of the world; the paragon of animals. And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me, <span class="folio"> ^F no, ^F </span> nor women neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.

My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts.

Why did ye laugh then when I said “man delights not me”?

To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, what Lenten entertainment the players shall receive from you. We coted them on the way, and hither are they coming to offer you service.

He that plays the King shall be welcome (his majesty shall have tribute on me), the Adventurous Knight shall use his foil and target, the Lover shall not sigh gratis, the Humorous Man shall end his part in peace, <span class="folio"> ^F the Clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickled o’th’sear, ^F </span> and the Lady shall say her mind freely — or the blank verse shall halt for’t. What players are they?

Even those you were wont to take such delight in, the tragedians of the city.

How chances it they travel? Their residence both in reputation and profit was better both ways.

I think their inhibition comes by the means of the late innovation.

Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? Are they so followed?

No, indeed are they not.

<span class="folio"> How comes it? Do they grow rusty? </span>

<span class="folio"> Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace. But there is, sir, an eyrie of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of question and are most tyrannically clapped for’t. These are now the fashion, and so berattle the common stages (so they call them) that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills and dare scarce come thither. </span>

<span class="folio"> What, are they children? Who maintains ’em? How are they escotted? Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing? Will they not say afterwards if they should grow themselves to common players (as it is most like if their means are no better) their writers do them wrong to make them exclaim against their own succession? </span>

<span class="folio"> Faith, there has been much to-do on both sides, and the nation holds it no sin to tar them to controversy. There was for a while no money bid for argument unless the poet and the player went to cuffs in the question. </span>

<span class="folio"> Is’t possible? </span>

<span class="folio"> Oh, there has been much throwing about of brains. </span>

<span class="folio"> Do the boys carry it away? </span>

<span class="folio"> Ay, that they do, my lord, Hercules and his load too. ^F </span>

It is not very strange, for my uncle is King of Denmark, and those that would make mouths at him while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats apiece for his picture in little. ’Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out.

There are the players.

Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come then: th’appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony. Let me comply with you in this garb lest my extent to the players, which I tell you must show fairly outwards, should more appear like entertainment than yours. You are welcome. But my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.

In what, my dear lord?

I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.

Well be with you, gentlemen.

Hark you, Guildenstern, and you too, at each ear a hearer: that great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling-clouts.

Happily he is the second time come to them, for they say an old man is twice a child.

I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players. Mark it. — You say right, sir, o’Monday morning, ’twas then indeed.

My lord, I have news to tell you.

My lord, I have news to tell you: when Roscius was an actor in Rome —

The actors are come hither, my lord.

Buzz, buzz.

Upon my honour.

Then came each actor on his ass.

The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, <span class="folio"> ^F tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, ^F </span> scene individable, or poem unlimited; Seneca cannot be too heavy nor Plautus too light for the law of writ and the liberty: these are the only men.

O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou?

What a treasure had he, my lord?

Why,

Still on my daughter.

Am I not i’th’right, old Jephthah?

If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I love passing well.

Nay, that follows not.

What follows then, my lord?

Why,

The first row of the pious chanson will show you more, for look where my abridgment comes.

You are welcome, masters, welcome all. — I am glad to see thee well. — Welcome, good friends. — Oh, my old friend, why, thy face is valanced since I saw thee last. Com’st thou to beard me in Denmark? What, my young lady and mistress! By’ Lady, your ladyship is nearer to heaven than when I saw you last by the altitude of a chopine. Pray God your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within the ring. — Masters, you are all welcome. We’ll e’en to’t like French falconers, fly at anything we see. We’ll have a speech straight. Come, give us a taste of your quality, come, a passionate speech.

What speech, my good lord?

I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was never acted, or, if it was, not above once, for the play, I remember, pleased not the million, ’twas caviary to the general. But it was (as I received it, and others whose judgements in such matters cried in the top of mine) an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning. I remember one said there were no sallets in the lines to make the matter savory, nor no matter in the phrase that might indict the author of affection, but called it an honest method,as wholesome as sweet, and by very much, more handsome than fine. One speech in’t I chiefly loved: ’twas Aeneas’ tale to Dido, and there about of it especially when he speaks of Priam’s slaughter. If it live in your memory, begin at this line — let me see, let me see:

’Tis not so, it begins with Pyrrhus:

So proceed you.

’Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and good discretion.

This is too long.

It shall to the barber’s with your beard. Prithee, say on, he’s for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps. Say on, come to Hecuba.

“The moblèd queen.”

That’s good. <span class="folio"> ^F “Moblèd queen” is good. ^F </span>

Look whe’er he has not turned his colour and has tears in’s eyes. — Prithee, no more.

’Tis well. I’ll have thee speak out the rest of this soon. — Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used, for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time; after your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.

My lord, I will use them according to their desert.

God’s bodkin, man, much better. Use every man after his desert, and who shall scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity: the less they deserve the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in.

Come, sirs.

Follow him, friends. We’ll hear a play tomorrow. — Dost thou hear me, old friend? Can you play The Murder of Gonzago ?

Ay, my lord.

We’ll ha’t tomorrow night. You could for need study a speech of some dozen lines, or sixteen lines, which I would set down and insert in’t, could you not?

Ay, my lord.

Very well. Follow that lord, and look you mock him not. — My good friends, I’ll leave you till night. You are welcome to Elsinore.

Good my lord.

That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.

Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?

Ay, truly, for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness. This was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once.

Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.

You should not have believed me. For virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I loved you not.

I was the more deceived.

Get thee to a nunn’ry. Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest, but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me: I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves <span class="folio"> ^F all ^F </span> , believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunn’ry. Where’s your father?

At home, my lord.

Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in’s own house. Farewell.

Oh, help him, you sweet heavens!

If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunn’ry. <span class="folio"> ^F Go. ^F </span> Farewell. Or if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool, for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunn’ry, go, and quickly too. Farewell.

Heavenly powers, restore him.

I have heard of your paintings <span class="folio"> ^F too ^F </span> well enough. God hath given you one face and you make yourselves another. You jig and amble, and you lisp, you nickname God’s creatures, and make your wantoness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t, it hath made me mad. I say we will have no mo marriage. Those that are married already, all but one, shall live. The rest shall keep as they are. To a nunn’ry, go.

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand thus, but use all gently; for, in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. Oh, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o’erdoing Termagant: it out-Herods Herod. Pray you avoid it.

I warrant your honour.

Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance: that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature. For anything so o’erdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is to hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature, to show virtue her <span class="folio"> ^F own ^F </span> feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it makes the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve, the censure of the which one must in your allowance o’erweigh a whole theatre of others. Oh, there be players that I have seen play and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that neither having th’accent of Christians nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature’s journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so “abhominably.”

I hope we have reformed that indifferently with us.

Oh, reform it altogether, and let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them, for there be of them that will themselves laugh to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the meantime some necessary question of the play be then to be considered. That’s villainous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go make you ready.

How now, my lord, will the King hear this piece of work?

And the Queen too, and that presently.

Bid the players make haste.

They are coming to the play. I must be idle. Get you a place.

How fares our cousin Hamlet?

Excellent, i’faith, of the chameleon’s dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed. You cannot feed capons so.

I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet, these words are not mine.

No, nor mine now. [To Polonius] My lord, you played once i’th’university, you say?

That did I, my lord, and was accounted a good actor —

What did you enact?

I did enact Julius Caesar. I was killed i’th’Capitol. Brutus killed me.

It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there. — Be the players ready?

Ay, my lord, they stay upon your patience.

Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me.

No, good mother, here’s metal more attractive.

[To the King] Oh ho, do you mark that?

Lady, shall I lie in your lap?

No, my lord.

<span class="folio"> I mean, my head upon your lap? </span>

<span class="folio"> Ay, my lord. ^F </span>

Do you think I meant country matters?

I think nothing, my lord.

That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs.

What is, my lord?

Nothing.

You are merry, my lord.

Who, I?

Ay, my lord.

O God, your only jig-maker. What should a man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within’s two hours.

Nay, ’tis twice two months, my lord.

So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables. O heavens, die two months ago and not forgotten yet! Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year. But, by’r Lady, ’a must build churches then, or else shall ’a suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is “For oh, for oh, the hobby-horse is forgot!”

What means this, my lord?

Marry, this is miching malicho. It means mischief.

Belike this show imports the argument of the play.

We shall know by this fellow. The players cannot keep counsel, they’ll tell all.

Will ’a tell us what this show meant?

Ay, or any show that you will show him. Be not you ashamed to show, he’ll not shame to tell you what it means.

You are naught, you are naught. I’ll mark the play.

Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?

’Tis brief, my lord.

As woman’s love.

That’s wormwood.

If she should break it now.

Madam, how like you this play?

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

Oh, but she’ll keep her word.

Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in’t?

No, no, they do but jest — poison in jest, no offence i’th’world.

What do you call the play?

The Mousetrap. Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna. Gonzago is the duke’s name; his wife, Baptista. You shall see anon. ’Tis a knavish piece of work, but what of that? Your majesty and we that have free souls, it touches us not. Let the galled jade wince, our withers are unwrung.

This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king.

You are as good as a chorus, my lord.

I could interpret between you and your love if I could see the puppets dallying.

You are keen, my lord, you are keen.

It would cost you a groaning to take off mine edge.

Still better and worse.

So you mis-take your husbands. — Begin, murderer. <span class="folio"> ^F Pox! ^F </span> Leave thy damnable faces and begin. Come: “the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.”

’A poisons him i’th’garden for his estate. His name’s Gonzago. The story is extant and written in very choice Italian. You shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife.

The King rises.

<span class="folio"> What, frighted with false fire? ^F </span>

How fares my lord?

Give o’er the play.

Give me some light. Away!

Lights, lights, lights!

Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers, if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me, with <span class="folio"> ^F two ^F </span> Provincial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players?

Half a share.

A whole one, I.

You might have rhymed.

O good Horatio, I’ll take the Ghost’s word for a thousand pound. Didst perceive?

Very well, my lord.

Upon the talk of the poisoning?

I did very well note him.

Ah ha! Come, some music! Come, the recorders!

Come, some music!

Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you.

Sir, a whole history.

The King, sir —

Ay, sir, what of him?

— is in his retirement marvellous distempered.

With drink, sir?

No, my lord, <span class="folio"> ^F rather ^F </span> with choler —

Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to the doctor, for, for me to put him to his purgation, would perhaps plunge him into <span class="folio"> ^F far ^F </span> more choler.

Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame, and start not so wildly from my affair.

I am tame, sir. Pronounce.

The Queen your mother in most great affliction of spirit hath sent me to you.

You are welcome.

Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do your mother’s commandement. If not, your pardon and my return shall be the end of <span class="folio"> ^F my ^F </span> business.

Sir, I cannot.

What, my lord?

Make you a wholesome answer: my wit’s diseased. But, sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command, or rather, as you say, my mother. Therefore no more, but to the matter. My mother, you say —

Then thus she says: your behaviour hath struck her into amazement and admiration.

Oh, wonderful son that can so ’stonish a mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother’s admiration? Impart.

She desires to speak with you in her closet ere you go to bed.

We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us?

My lord, you once did love me.

And do still, by these pickers and stealers.

Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? You do surely bar the door upon your own liberty if you deny your griefs to your friend.

Sir, I lack advancement.

How can that be, when you have the voice of the King himself for your succession in Denmark?

Ay, sir, but while the grass grows — the proverb is something musty. Oh, the recorders! Let me see one. — To withdraw with you, why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil?

O my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.

I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe?

My lord, I cannot.

I pray you.

Believe me, I cannot.

I do beseech you.

I know no touch of it, my lord.

It is as easy as lying: govern these ventages with your fingers and thumbs, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.

But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony. I have not the skill.

Why, look you now how unworthy a thing you make of me: you would play upon me, you would seem to know my stops, you would pluck out the heart of my mystery, you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass, and there is much music, excellent voice in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. ’Sblood! Do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you fret me you cannot play upon me.

God bless you, sir.

My lord, the Queen would speak with you, and presently.

Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel?

By th’mass, and ’tis, like a camel indeed.

Methinks it is like a weasel.

It is backed like a weasel.

Or like a whale.

Very like a whale.

Then I will come to my mother by and by.

They fool me to the top of my bent.

I will say so.

“By and by” is easily said. — Leave me, friends.

Safely stowed.

[Calling within] But soft. What noise? Who calls on Hamlet? Oh, here they come.

That I can keep your counsel and not mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge, what replication should be made by the son of a king?

Take you me for a sponge, my lord?

Ay, sir, that soaks up the King’s countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the King best service in the end: he keeps them like an ape an apple in the corner of his jaw, first mouthed to be last swallowed. When he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you and, sponge, you shall be dry again.

I understand you not, my lord.

I am glad of it, a knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear.

My lord, you must tell us where the body is and go with us to the King.

The body is with the King, but the King is not with the body. The King is a thing —

A thing, my lord?

Of nothing. Bring me to him. <span class="folio"> ^F Hide fox and all after. ^F </span>

Now, Hamlet, where’s Polonius?

At supper.

At supper, where?

Not where he eats but where ’a is eaten. A certain convocation of politic worms are e’en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service: two dishes but to one table — that’s the end.

Alas, alas.

A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.

What dost thou mean by this?

Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar.

Where is Polonius?

In heaven. Send thither to see. If your messenger find him not there, seek him i’th’other place yourself. But if indeed you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby.

Go seek him there.

’A will stay till you come.

Say you? Nay, pray you, mark.

Oh, ho!

Pray you, mark.

Well, good dild 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, let’s have no words of this, but when they ask you what it means, say you this:

Indeed, <span class="folio"> ^F la!, ^F </span> without an oath I’ll make an end on’t.

He answers:

I hope all will be well. We must be patient. But I cannot choose but weep to think they would 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.

Fare you well, my dove.

You must sing “a-down a-down”, an you call him “a-down-a.” Oh, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward that stole his master’s daughter.

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.

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 of grace o’Sundays. You may 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 ’a made a good end.

And of all Christians’ souls. <span class="folio"> ^F I pray God. ^F </span> God b’wi’you.

What are they that would speak with me?

Sea-faring men, sir. They say they have letters for you.

Let them come in.

I do not know from what part of the world I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet.

God bless you, sir.

Let Him bless thee too.

’A shall, sir, an please Him. There’s a letter for you, sir, (it came from th’ambassador that was bound for England) if your name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is.

[Reads the letter.] “Horatio, when thou shalt have overlooked this, give these fellows some means to the King: they have letters for him. Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the grapple I boarded them. On the instant they got clear of our ship, so I alone became their prisoner. They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy, but they knew what they did: I am to do a turn for them. Let the King have the letters I have sent, and repair thou to me with as much speed as thou wouldest fly death. I have words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they much too light for the bore of the matter. These good fellows will bring thee where I am. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hold their course for England. Of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell.

He that thou knowest thine, Hamlet.”

“High and mighty, you shall know I am set naked on your kingdom. Tomorrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes, when I shall, first asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasion of my sudden <span class="folio"> ^F and more strange ^F </span> return. <span class="folio"> ^F Hamlet. ^F </span> ”

Is she to be buried in Christian burial, when she wilfully seeks her own salvation?

I tell thee she is, therefore make her grave straight. The crowner hath sat on her and finds it Christian burial.

How can that be unless she drowned herself in her own defence?

Why, ’tis found so.

It must be se offendendo , it cannot be else. For here lies the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act, and an act hath three branches — it is to act, to do, to perform; argal, she drowned herself wittingly.

Nay, but hear you, goodman delver —

Give me leave. Here lies the water — good. Here stands the man — good. If the man go to this water and drown himself, it is (will he nill he) he goes. Mark you that. But if the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not himself. Argal, he that is not guilty of his own death, shortens not his own life.

But is this law?

Ay, marry is’t, crowner’s ’quest law.

Will you ha’ the truth an’t? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o’Christian burial.

Why, there thou say’st, and the more pity that great folk should have count’nance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even-Christen. Come, my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gard’ners, ditchers and grave-makers; they hold up Adam’s profession.

Was he a gentleman?

’A was the first that ever bore arms.

<span class="folio"> Why, he had none. </span>

<span class="folio"> What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? The Scripture says Adam digged. Could he dig without arms? ^F </span> I’ll put another question to thee. If thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself —

Go to.

What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?

The gallows-maker, for that <span class="folio"> ^F frame ^F </span> outlives a thousand tenants.

I like thy wit well, in good faith, the gallows does well. But how does it well? It does well to those that do ill. Now, thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church; argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To’t again, come.

Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?

Ay, tell me that and unyoke.

Marry, now I can tell.

To’t.

Mass, I cannot tell.

Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating, and when you are asked this question next, say “a grave-maker:” the houses he makes lasts till doomsday. Go get thee in, and fetch me a stoup of liquor.

Has this fellow no feeling of his business? ’A sings in grave-making.

Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.

’Tis e’en so. The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.

That skull had a tongue in it and could sing once. How the knave jowls it to the ground, as if ’twere Cain’s jawbone, that did the first murder. This might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o’erreaches, one that would circumvent God, might it not?

It might, my lord.

Or of a courtier, which could say “Good morrow, sweet lord, how dost thou, sweet lord?” This might be my Lord Such-a-one, that praised my Lord Such-a-One’s horse when ’a went to beg it, might it not?

Ay, my lord.

Why, e’en so. And now my Lady Worm’s: chopless and knocked about the mazard with a sexton’s spade. Here’s fine revolution, an we had the trick to see’t. Did these bones cost no more the breeding but to play at loggets with them? Mine ache to think on’t.

There’s another. Why, may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddities now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? Why does he suffer this mad knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum! This fellow might be in’s time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries— Is this the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine pate full of fine dirt? Will vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases and doubles than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his lands will scarcely lie in this box, and must th’inheritor himself have no more, ha?

Not a jot more, my lord.

Is not parchment made of sheepskins?

Ay, my lord, and of calves’ skins too.

They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow. — Whose grave’s this, sirrah?

Mine, sir.

I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t.

You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ’tis not yours; for my part I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine.

Thou dost lie in’t to be in’t and say it is thine. ’Tis for the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest.

’Tis a quick lie, sir, ’twill away again from me to you.

What man dost thou dig it for?

For no man, sir.

What woman then?

For none neither.

Who is to be buried in’t?

One that was a woman, sir, but, rest her soul, she’s dead.

How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, this three years I have took note of it, the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls his kibe. — How long hast thou been grave-maker?

Of all the days i’th’year, I came to’t that day that our last King Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.

How long is that since?

Cannot you tell that? Every fool can tell that: it was that very day that young Hamlet was born, he that is mad and sent into England.

Ay, marry. Why was he sent into England?

Why, because ’a was mad: ’a shall recover his wits there, or if ’a do not, ’tis no great matter there.

Why?

’Twill not be seen in him there, there the men are as mad as he.

How came he mad?

Very strangely, they say.

How strangely?

Faith, e’en with losing his wits.

Upon what ground?

Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years.

How long will a man lie i’th’earth ere he rot?

Faith, if ’a be not rotten before ’a die (as we have many pocky corpses that will scarce hold the laying in), ’a will last you some eight year, or nine year. A tanner will last you nine year.

Why he more than another?

Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with his trade that ’a will keep out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here’s a skull now hath lien you i’th’earth three and twenty years.

Whose was it?

A whoreson mad fellow’s it was. Whose do you think it was?

Nay, I know not.

A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! ’A poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was, sir, Yorick’s skull, the King’s jester.

This?

E’en that.

<span class="folio"> ^F Let me see. ^F </span> Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath bore me on his back a thousand times, and now how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your jibes now? Your gambols, your songs, your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now to mock your own grinning? Quite chop-fall’n? Now get you to my lady’s table and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come. Make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing.

What’s that, my lord?

Dost thou think Alexander looked o’this fashion i’th’earth?

E’en so.

And smelt so? Pah!

E’en so, my lord.

To what base uses we may return, Horatio? Why, may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till ’a find it stopping a bung-hole?

’Twere to consider too curiously to consider so.

No, faith, not a jot, but to follow him thither with modesty enough and likelihood to lead it <span class="folio"> ^F as thus ^F </span> : Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to dust, the dust is earth, of earth we make loam, and why of that loam whereto he was converted might they not stop a beer-barrel?

Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark.

I humbly thank you, sir. — Dost know this water-fly?

No, my good lord.

Thy state is the more gracious, for ’tis a vice to know him. He hath much land and fertile. Let a beast be lord of beasts and his crib shall stand at the king’s mess. ’Tis a chough but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt.

Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you from his majesty.

I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit — <span class="folio"> ^F put ^F </span> your bonnet to his right use: ’tis for the head.

I thank your lordship, it is very hot.

No, believe me, ’tis very cold, the wind is northerly.

It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed.

But yet methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion.

Exceedingly, my lord, it is very sultry, as ’twere — I cannot tell how. My lord, his majesty bade me signify to you that ’a has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter —

I beseech you remember.

Nay, good my lord, for my ease, in good faith. Sir, here is newly come to court Laertes — believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent differences, of very soft society, and great showing. Indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card or calendar of gentry; for you shall find in him the continent of what part a gentleman would see.

Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you, though I know to divide him inventorially would dizzy th’arithmetic of memory, and yet but yaw neither, in respect of his quick sail. But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article and his infusion of such dearth and rareness as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror, and who else would trace him, his umbrage, nothing more.

Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him.

The concernancy, sir — Why do we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath?

Sir?

Is’t not possible to understand in another tongue? You will do’t, sir, really.

What imports the nomination of this gentleman?

Of Laertes?

His purse is empty already: all’s golden words are spent.

Of him, sir.

I know you are not ignorant —

I would you did, sir. Yet, in faith, if you did, it would not much approve me. Well, sir.

<span class="folio"> ^F Sir, ^F </span> You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is — <span class="folio"> ^F at his weapon. ^F </span>

I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in excellence. But to know a man well were to know himself.

I mean, sir, for his weapon. But in the imputation laid on him by them in his meed he’s unfellowed.

What’s his weapon?

Rapier and dagger.

That’s two of his weapons — but well.

The King, sir, hath wagered with him six Barbary horses, against the which he has impawned, as I take it, six French rapiers and poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hanger and so. Three of the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal conceit.

What call you the carriages?

I knew you must be edified by the margin ere you had done.

The carriages, sir, are the hangers.

The phrase would be more germane to the matter if we could carry a cannon by our sides. I would it might be “hangers” till then. But on. Six Barbary horses against six French swords, their assigns and three liberal-conceited carriages: that’s the French bet against the Danish. Why is this — all you call it?

The King, sir, hath laid, sir, that in a dozen passes between yourself and him he shall not exceed you three hits; he hath laid on twelve for nine, and it would come to immediate trial, if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer.

How if I answer no?

I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial.

Sir, I will walk here in the hall. If it please his majesty, it is the breathing time of day with me. Let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the King hold his purpose — I will win for him an I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits.

Shall I deliver you so?

To this effect, sir, after what flourish your nature will.

I commend my duty to your lordship.

Yours. Does well to commend it himself, there are no tongues else for’s turn.

This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head.

’A did so, sir, with his dug before ’a sucked it. Thus has he, and many more of the same breed that I know the drossy age dotes on, only got the tune of the time and, out of an habit of encounter, a kind of yeasty collection, which carries them through and through the most profane and winnowed opinions; and do but blow them to their trial, the bubbles are out.

My lord, his majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who brings back to him that you attend him in the hall. He sends to know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that you will take longer time?

I am constant to my purposes. They follow the King’s pleasure. If his fitness speaks, mine is ready: now or whensoever, provided I be so able as now.

The King and Queen and all are coming down.

In happy time.

The Queen desires you to use some gentle entertainment to Laertes before you fall to play.

She well instructs me.

You will lose <span class="folio"> ^F this wager ^F </span> , my lord.

I do not think so. Since he went into France, I have been in continual practice. I shall win at the odds. Thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart — but it is no matter.

Nay, good my lord —

It is but foolery, but it is such a kind of gaingiving as would perhaps trouble a woman.

If your mind dislike anything, obey it. I will forestall their repair hither and say you are not fit.

Not a whit. We defy augury. There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. If it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all. Since no man of aught he leaves knows, what is’t to leave betimes? Let be.

Come on, sir.

Come, my lord.

One.

No.

Judgement.

A hit, a very palpable hit.

Well, again.