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Now must your conscience my acquittance seal, And you must put me in your heart for friend, Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear, That he which hath your noble father slain Pursu’d my life.
Now, you must clear your conscience for me, And you must accept me as a friend, Since you’ve heard, and with understanding, That the man who killed your noble father Has been after my life.
It well appears. But tell me Why you proceeded not against these feats, So crimeful and so capital in nature, As by your safety, wisdom, all things else, You mainly were stirr’d up.
It’s clear. But tell me Why you didn’t act against these crimes, So serious and dangerous in nature, When, for your safety, wisdom, and everything else, You were clearly pushed to do so.
O, for two special reasons, Which may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinew’d, But yet to me they are strong. The Queen his mother Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,— My virtue or my plague, be it either which,— She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul, That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, I could not but by her. The other motive, Why to a public count I might not go, Is the great love the general gender bear him, Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, Would like the spring that turneth wood to stone, Convert his gyves to graces; so that my arrows, Too slightly timber’d for so loud a wind, Would have reverted to my bow again, And not where I had aim’d them.
Oh, for two special reasons, Which may seem weak to you, perhaps, But to me they are strong. The Queen, his mother, Lives almost by his gaze; and as for me,— Whether it’s my virtue or my curse, She’s so connected to my life and soul, That, like a star that only moves in its orbit, I couldn’t act without her. The other reason, Why I couldn’t make this a public matter, Is the great love that the people have for him, Who, covering all his faults with their affection, Would be like the spring that turns wood to stone, Turning his chains into honors; so that my arrows, Too weak for such a powerful wind, Would have turned back to me, And not hit where I aimed them.
And so have I a noble father lost, A sister driven into desperate terms, Whose worth, if praises may go back again, Stood challenger on mount of all the age For her perfections. But my revenge will come.
And so I’ve lost a noble father, A sister pushed to despair, Whose worth, if praises can go back in time, Was the greatest of anyone’s age For her perfection. But my revenge will come.
Break not your sleeps for that. You must not think That we are made of stuff so flat and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger, And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more. I lov’d your father, and we love ourself, And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine—
Don’t lose sleep over that. You must not think That we are made of such flat and dull stuff That we can let danger shake us, And think it’s just a game. You’ll soon hear more. I loved your father, and we love ourselves, And that, I hope, will help you understand—
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How now? What news?
What’s this? What news?
Letters, my lord, from Hamlet. This to your Majesty; this to the Queen.
Letters, my lord, from Hamlet. This one’s for your Majesty; this one’s for the Queen.
From Hamlet! Who brought them?
From Hamlet! Who brought them?
Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not. They were given me by Claudio. He receiv’d them Of him that brought them.
Sailors, my lord, that’s what they say; I didn’t see them. They were given to me by Claudio. He received them From the one who brought them.
Laertes, you shall hear them. Leave us.
Laertes, you will hear them. Leave us.
[
]‘High and mighty, you should know I’m exposed in your kingdom. Tomorrow, I’ll ask permission to see your royal face. When I do, I’ll first ask your forgiveness, then explain the reasons for my sudden and strange return. 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 occasions of my sudden and more strange return. HAMLET.’
]‘High and mighty, you should know I’m exposed in your kingdom. Tomorrow, I’ll ask permission to see your royal face. When I do, I’ll first ask your forgiveness, then explain the reasons for my sudden and strange return. HAMLET.’
What should this mean? Are all the rest come back? Or is it some abuse, and no such thing?
What does this mean? Have the others returned? Or is this just a trick, and there’s nothing to it?
Know you the hand?
Do you recognize the handwriting?
’Tis Hamlet’s character.’Naked!’ And in a postscript here he says‘alone.’ Can you advise me?
It’s Hamlet’s handwriting. ‘Naked!’ And in a postscript here, he says ‘alone.’ What do you think?
I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come, It warms the very sickness in my heart That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, ‘Thus diest thou.’
I’m confused, my lord. But let him come, It excites the very pain in my heart That I’ll live to tell him to his face, ‘This is how you die.’
If it be so, Laertes,— As how should it be so? How otherwise?— Will you be rul’d by me?
If that’s the case, Laertes,— But how can it be so? How else could it be?— Will you follow my lead?
Ay, my lord; So you will not o’errule me to a peace.
Yes, my lord; As long as you don’t force me into peace.
To thine own peace. If he be now return’d, As checking at his voyage, and that he means No more to undertake it, I will work him To exploit, now ripe in my device, Under the which he shall not choose but fall; And for his death no wind shall breathe, But even his mother shall uncharge the practice And call it accident.
For your own peace. If he has really returned, As if to stop his journey, and if he no longer plans To go ahead with it, I will use him To do what I’ve already planned, Under which he won’t be able to escape; And when he dies, no one will suspect a thing, Even his mother will say it was an accident.
My lord, I will be rul’d; The rather if you could devise it so That I might be the organ.
My lord, I will follow your lead; Especially if you could arrange it so That I could be the one to carry it out.
It falls right. You have been talk’d of since your travel much, And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality Wherein they say you shine. Your sum of parts Did not together pluck such envy from him As did that one, and that, in my regard, Of the unworthiest siege.
That works perfectly. You’ve been talked about a lot since your travels, And Hamlet has heard of it, for a quality That they say you possess. Your abilities Didn’t make him envy you as much As that one thing did, and that, in my view, Is the most dishonorable of actions.
What part is that, my lord?
What’s that thing, my lord?
A very riband in the cap of youth, Yet needful too, for youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it wears Than settled age his sables and his weeds, Importing health and graveness. Two months since Here was a gentleman of Normandy,— I’ve seen myself, and serv’d against, the French, And they can well on horseback, but this gallant Had witchcraft in’t. He grew unto his seat, And to such wondrous doing brought his horse, As had he been incorps’d and demi-natur’d With the brave beast. So far he topp’d my thought That I in forgery of shapes and tricks, Come short of what he did.
A very impressive thing in the prime of youth, But also necessary, since youth looks no less good In the carefree clothes it wears Than old age does in its black robes and grave attire, Which signify wisdom and seriousness. Two months ago, There was a gentleman from Normandy,— I’ve seen him myself, and fought against the French, And they’re skilled on horseback, but this man Had some kind of magic. He seemed to merge with his horse, And made it do such incredible things, As though he and the horse were one. He amazed me so much That I, trying to imitate his tricks and shapes, Fell far short of what he did.
A Norman was’t?
Was he a Norman?
A Norman.
A Norman.
Upon my life, Lamond.
I swear, Lamond.
The very same.
Exactly the same.
I know him well. He is the brooch indeed And gem of all the nation.
I know him well. He is truly the best And the greatest in the country.
He made confession of you, And gave you such a masterly report For art and exercise in your defence, And for your rapier most especially, That he cried out’twould be a sight indeed If one could match you. The scrimers of their nation He swore had neither motion, guard, nor eye, If you oppos’d them. Sir, this report of his Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy That he could nothing do but wish and beg Your sudden coming o’er to play with him. Now, out of this,—
He confessed about you, And gave you such a glowing review For your skill and training in self-defense, And especially for your rapier, That he said it would be amazing If anyone could match you. He swore that the fighters from his country Had neither skill, defense, nor awareness, If you fought against them. Sir, this praise of yours Made Hamlet so consumed with envy That he could do nothing but wish and beg For you to come over quickly and spar with him. Now, because of this—
What out of this, my lord?
What do you mean by this, my lord?
Laertes, was your father dear to you? Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart?
Laertes, was your father precious to you? Or are you like a painting of sadness, A face without any real feeling?
Why ask you this?
Why do you ask this?
Not that I think you did not love your father, But that I know love is begun by time, And that I see, in passages of proof, Time qualifies the spark and fire of it. There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it; And nothing is at a like goodness still, For goodness, growing to a pleurisy, Dies in his own too much. That we would do, We should do when we would; for this‘would’changes, And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; And then this‘should’is like a spendthrift sigh That hurts by easing. But to the quick o’th’ulcer: Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake To show yourself your father’s son in deed, More than in words?
Not that I think you didn’t love your father, But I know that love grows over time, And I can see, from clear evidence, That time can change the strength of love. Even within love’s flame There’s a kind of wick or smoke that weakens it; And nothing stays at its best forever, For love, when it grows too intense, Burns itself out. What we want to do, We should do right away; for what we ‘want’ changes, And has setbacks and delays as many As there are voices, hands, or accidents; And then what we ‘should’ do is like a useless sigh That only makes things worse by easing. But to get to the point: Hamlet is coming back: what would you do To prove you’re truly your father’s son in action, Not just in words?
To cut his throat i’th’church.
I would cut his throat in the church.
No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize; Revenge should have no bounds. But good Laertes, Will you do this, keep close within your chamber. Hamlet return’d shall know you are come home: We’ll put on those shall praise your excellence, And set a double varnish on the fame The Frenchman gave you, bring you in fine together And wager on your heads. He, being remiss, Most generous, and free from all contriving, Will not peruse the foils; so that with ease, Or with a little shuffling, you may choose A sword unbated, and in a pass of practice, Requite him for your father.
No place, indeed, should shield murder; Revenge should have no limits. But good Laertes, Will you do this, stay hidden in your room. When Hamlet returns, he’ll know you’re back: We’ll spread the word praising your skill, And enhance the fame The Frenchman gave you, bringing you together And betting on your success. He, being careless, Most generous, and free from all planning, Won’t check the swords; so with ease, Or with a little trickery, you may choose A sword that’s not dulled, and in a practice duel, Get back at him for your father.
I will do’t. And for that purpose I’ll anoint my sword. I bought an unction of a mountebank So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death This is but scratch’d withal. I’ll touch my point With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly, It may be death.
I will do it. And for that purpose I’ll poison my sword. I bought a deadly potion from a quack So powerful that, if you dip a knife in it, Anywhere it draws blood, no remedy so rare, Collected from all the healing plants in the world, Can save him from death. This is just a scratch, though. I’ll coat my blade With this poison, so if I wound him slightly, It may be deadly.
Let’s further think of this, Weigh what convenience both of time and means May fit us to our shape. If this should fail, And that our drift look through our bad performance. ’Twere better not assay’d. Therefore this project Should have a back or second, that might hold If this did blast in proof. Soft, let me see. We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings,— I ha’t! When in your motion you are hot and dry, As make your bouts more violent to that end, And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping, If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck, Our purpose may hold there.
Let’s think this over some more, Consider what time and resources We have to make this work. If it fails, And if our plan is ruined by bad luck, It would be better not to try it at all. So this plan Should have a backup, just in case If it goes wrong. Wait, let me think. We’ll make a grand bet on your cleverness,— I’ve got it! When you’re moving fast and dry, And you make your strikes more vicious to that end, And when he asks for a drink, I’ll have ready for him A cup for the occasion; and with just a sip, If he happens to survive your poisoned blade, Our plan may still succeed.
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How now, sweet Queen?
How now, sweet Queen?
One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, So fast they follow. Your sister’s drown’d, Laertes.
One tragedy follows another so quickly, They come one after another. Your sister’s drowned, Laertes.
Drown’d! O, where?
Drowned! Oh, where?
There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoary leaves in the glassy stream. There with fantastic garlands did she make Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them. There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke, When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide, And mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up, Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes, As one incapable of her own distress, Or like a creature native and indued Unto that element. But long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death.
There is a willow growing by a stream, Its white leaves reflecting in the calm water. There she made garlands of flowers, Crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purple flowers, The kind that the richer shepherds call by another name, But we call them dead men’s fingers. There, on the hanging branches, her wreaths of weeds Got caught and broke, and she fell, Taking her weeds and herself down into the weeping stream. Her clothes spread out like a mermaid’s, and for a while, They kept her afloat, While she sang snatches of old songs, As if she didn’t understand her own misery, Or as if she belonged to that element, like a creature born to it. But it couldn’t last long, Until her heavy clothes, weighed down with water, Pulled her down from her sweet song To a muddy death.
Alas, then she is drown’d?
So, she is drowned then?
Drown’d, drown’d.
Drowned, yes, drowned.
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears. But yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will. When these are gone, The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord, I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, But that this folly douts it.
Too much water, poor Ophelia, And so I will not cry. But still, It’s how we are; nature does what it always does, Let shame say what it wants. When these tears are gone, The woman will be gone too. Goodbye, my lord, I have a speech of fire, ready to burn, But this foolishness puts it out.
Let’s follow, Gertrude; How much I had to do to calm his rage! Now fear I this will give it start again; Therefore let’s follow.
Let’s follow her, Gertrude; You wouldn’t believe how much I had to do to calm him down! Now I fear this will make him angry again; So let’s follow.