Original subtitles

- (DISTANT) Who's there? - Nay, answer me.

- Stand and unfold yourself. - Long live the king!

Bernardo?

- He. - You come most carefully upon your hour.

'Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco.

For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.

- Have you had quiet guard? - Not a mouse stirring.

Well, good night.

If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, the rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.

I think I hear them. Stand, ho!

- Who's there? - (MAN) Friends to this ground.

- (2ND MAN) Liegemen to the Dane. - Good night.

- Farewell. Who hath relieved you? - Bernardo has my place.

Give you good night.

Holla! Bernardo!

Say, what, is Horatio there?

A piece of him.

Welcome, Horatio. Welcome, good Marcellus.

- Has this thing appear'd again tonight? - I have seen nothing.

Horatio says 'tis but our fantasy, and will not let belief take hold of him

touching this dreaded sight twice seen of us.

I have entreated him to watch the minutes of this night,

that if again this apparition come, he may approve our eyes and speak to it.

Tush, tush, 'twill not appear.

Sit down awhile, and let us once again assail your ears,

that are so fortified against our story, what we have two nights seen.

Well, sit we down, and let us hear Bernardo speak of this.

Last night of all, when yond same star that's westward from the pole

had made his course to where now it burns,

Marcellus and myself, the bell beating one...

Peace! Look where it comes again!

In the same figure like the king that's dead.

Thou art a scholar, speak to it, Horatio.

Looks it not like the king? Mark it, Horatio.

Most like. It harrows me with fear and wonder.

- It would be spoke to. - Question it, Horatio.

What art thou that usurp'st this time of night,

together with that fair and warlike form

in which the majesty of buried Denmark did sometimes march?

By heaven, I charge thee speak!

- It is offended. - See, it stalks away.

Stay! Speak, speak!

I charge thee speak!

'Tis gone and will not answer.

How now, Horatio.

You tremble and look pale. Is not this more than fantasy?

Before my God, I might not this believe without the avouch of mine own eyes.

- Is it not like the king? - As thou art to thyself.

Such was the very armour he had on when he the ambitious Norway combated.

So frown'd he once, when in an angry parle, he smote the sledded Polacks on the ice.

- 'Tis strange. - Thus twice before at this dead hour

with martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.

In what particular thought to work I...

..I know not.

But in the gross and scope of mine opinion,

this bodes some strange eruption to our state.

Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that knows,

why this same strict and most observant watch so nightly toils the subject of the land,

and why such daily cast of brazen cannon and foreign mart for implements of war.

Who is't that can inform me?

That can I. At least the whisper goes so.

Our last king, whose image even but now appear'd to us,

was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway,

thereto prick'd on by a most emulate pride, dared to the combat;

in which our valiant Hamlet - for so we esteem'd him - did slay this Fortinbras,

who by a seal'd compact, well ratified by law and heraldry,

did forfeit, with his life, all his lands which he stood seized of, to the conqueror.

Now, sir, young Fortinbras,

of unimproved mettle, hot and full,

hath in the skirts of Norway here and there shark'd up a list of lawless resolutes

for food to some enterprise that hath a stomach in't,

which is none other, as it doth well appear, but to recover of us,

by strong hand and terms compulsatory, those foresaid lands so by his father lost.

This is the motive of our preparation.

I think it bee'en so. Well may it sort

that this portentous figure comes armed so like the king

that was and is the question of these wars.

But soft. Behold where it comes again!

I'll cross it though it blast me.

Stay, illusion!

If thou hast any sound or use of voice, speak to me.

If there be any good thing to be done that may to thee do ease, speak to me!

(COCK CROWS)

If thou art privy to thy country's fate, which foreknowing may avoid, O, speak!

- Stop it, Marcellus. - Shall I strike at it?

Do, if it will not stand.

(BERNARDO ) 'Tis here!

'Tis here!

'Tis gone!

We do it wrong to offer it the show of violence,

for it is invulnerable, and our vain blows malicious mockery.

- It was about to speak when the cock crew. - Then it started as upon a fearful summons.

I have heard the cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,

doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat awake the god of day,

and at his warning, whether in sea or fire, in earth or air,

the extravagant and erring spirit hies to his confine.

Of the truth herein, this present object made probation.

It faded on the crowing of the cock.

Some say that 'gainst that season wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,

this bird of dawning singeth all night long.

And then no spirit dares stir abroad, the nights are wholesome,

then no planets strike, no fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,

so hallow'd and gracious is that time.

So have I heard and do in part believe it.

But look, the morn in russet mantle clad walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill.

Break we our watch up. Let us impart what we have seen tonight unto young Hamlet.

For upon my life, this spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him.

Let's do't, I pray, and I this morning know where we shall find him most convenient.

(APPLAUSE)

Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green,

and that it us befitted to bear our hearts in grief and be contracted in one brow of woe,

yet so far hath discretion fought with nature

that we with wisest sorrow think on him together with remembrance of ourselves.

Therefore our sometime sister,

now our queen, the imperial jointress to this warlike state,

have we, as 'twere with a defeated joy,

with one auspicious and one dropping eye,

with mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage,

in equal scale weighing delight and dole,

taken to wife.

Nor have we barr'd your better wisdoms, which have gone with this affair along.

For all, our thanks.

Now follows that you know young Fortinbras, holding a weak supposal of our worth,

or thinking by our late dear brother's death our state to be disjoint,

he hath not fail'd to pester us, importing surrender of lands

lost by his father to our most valiant brother.

So much for him. Now for ourself. Thus much the business is:

we have here writ to Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras -

who, impotent and bedrid, scarcely hears of this his nephew's purpose -

to suppress his further gait herein, in that the proportions are made out of his subject.

We here dispatch you, Cornelius, and you, Voltemand,

for bearers of this greeting to old Norway;

giving you no further power to business with the king more than these articles allow.

Farewell. Let your haste commend your duty.

- In all things will we show our duty. - We doubt it nothing. Heartily farewell.

And now, Laertes, what's the news with you?

You told us of some suit. What is't, Laertes?

You cannot speak of reason to the Dane and lose your voice.

What wouldst thou beg that shall not be my offer, not thy asking?

The head is not more native to the heart than is the throne of Denmark to thy father.

What wouldst thou have, Laertes?

My dread lord, your leave to return to France,

from whence I came to Denmark to show my duty in your coronation,

yet now I must confess, that duty done,

my thoughts bend again toward France and bow them to your gracious pardon.

Have you your father's leave? Polonius?

He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave by laboursome petition,

and at last upon his will I seal'd my hard consent:

I do beseech you, give him leave to go.

Take thy fair hour, Laertes. Time be thine, and thy best graces spend it at thy will.

But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son.

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

- How is it the clouds still hang on you? - Not so, my lord.

I am too much i' the sun.

Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, and let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.

Do not for ever with thy vailed lids seek for thy noble father in the dust.

Thou know'st 'tis common - all that live must die, passing through nature to eternity.

Ay, madam, it is common.

If it be, why seems it so particular with thee?

"Seems", madam?! Nay it is! I know not "seems".

'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,

nor customary suits of solemn black,

nor windy suspiration of forced breath, no, nor the fruitful river in the eye,

nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,

together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, that can denote me truly.

These indeed seem, for they are actions that a man might play.

But I have that within which passes show,

these but the trappings and the suits of woe.

'Tis sweet and commendable to give these mourning duties to your father,

but you must know your father lost a father, that father lost lost his,

and the survivor bound in filial obligation to do obsequious sorrow.

But to persever in obstinate condolement is a course of impious stubbornness.

'Tis unmanly grief. It shows a will most incorrect to heaven,

a heart unfortified, a mind impatient, an understanding simple and unschool'd.

For what we know must be, why should we in our peevish opposition take it to heart?

Fie! 'Tis a fault to heaven, a fault against the dead...

..a fault to nature, to reason most absurd, whose common theme is death of fathers.

We pray you, throw to earth this unprevailing woe, and think of us as of a father.

For let the world take note, you are the most immediate to our throne.

With no less nobility of love than that which father bears his son, do I impart toward you.

For your intent in going back to school in Wittenberg...

it is most retrograde to our desires, and we beseech you, remain here

in the cheer and comfort of our eye, our chiefest courtier, cousin, and son.

Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet. Stay with us. Go not to Wittenberg.

I shall in all my best obey you, madam.

Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply.

Be as ourself in Denmark.

Madam, come. This gentle and unforced accord of Hamlet sits smiling to my heart,

in grace whereof no jocund health but the great cannon to the clouds shall tell.

At the king's rouse, the heavens shall bruit again, re-speaking earthly thunder.

Come away.

O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew.

Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd his canon 'gainst self-slaughter!

O God.

God.

How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

Fie on't. Oh, fie!

'Tis an unweeded garden that grows to seed.

Things rank and gross in nature possess it merely.

That it should come to this.

But two months dead - nay, not so much, not two -

so excellent a king, that was to this Hyperion to a satyr...

..so loving to my mother

that he might not beteem the winds of heaven visit her face too roughly.

Heaven and earth! Must I remember?

Why, she would hang on him as if increase of appetite had grown by what it fed on.

And yet, within a month...

Let me not think on't.

Frailty, thy name is woman!

A little month, or ere those shoes were old with which she follow'd my poor father's body,

like Niobe, all tears, why she, even she -

O, God! A beast that wants discourse of reason would have mourn'd longer -

married with my uncle,

my father's brother,

but no more like my father than I to Hercules.

Within a month,

ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears had left her galled eyes, she married!

O, most wicked speed, to post with such dexterity to incestuous sheets!

It is not nor it cannot come to good.

But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

- Hail to your lordship! - I am glad to see thee well.

Horatio, or I do forget myself.

The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.

Sir, my good friend, I'll change that name with you.

And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?

- Marcellus? - My good lord.

I am very glad to see you. Good even, sir. What in faith make you from Wittenberg?

- A truant disposition, good my lord. - I would not hear your enemy say so.

What is your affair in Elsinore? We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.

My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.

I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student. It was to see my mother's wedding.

- Indeed, my lord, it follow'd hard upon. - Thrift, Horatio.

The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven or ever I had seen that day.

My father... Methinks I see my father...

Where, my lord?

In my mind's eye, Horatio.

I saw him once; a was a goodly king.

He was a man, take him for all in all. I shall not look upon his like again.

My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.

- Saw who? - My lord, the king your father.

- The king my father! - Season your admiration for awhile

with an attent ear, till I may deliver this marvel to you.

For God's love, let me hear.

Two nights together had Marcellus and Bernardo

on their watch in the middle of the night been thus encounter'd.

A figure like your father, armed at point exactly, cap-�-pie, appears before them

and with solemn march goes stately by them.

Thrice he walk'd by their oppress'd and fear-surprised eyes

within his truncheon's length,

whilst they, distilled to jelly with the act of fear, stand dumb and speak not to him.

This to me in dreadful secrecy impart they did, and I with them kept the watch.

As they had deliver'd both in time, form of the thing, each word made good.

The apparition comes. I knew your father. These hands are not more like.

- But where was this? - Upon the platform.

- Did you not speak to it? - I did, but answer made it none.

Yet once methought it did address itself to motion like it would speak,

but even then the morning cock crew loud,

and at its sound it shrunk in haste away and vanish'd from our sight.

- 'Tis very strange. - As I do live, 'tis true.

We did think it our duty to let you know of it.

Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me.

- Hold you the watch tonight? - We do.

- Arm'd, you say? From top to toe? - From head to foot.

- Then saw you not his face? - He wore his beaver up.

- What look'd he, frowningly? - More in sorrow.

- Pale or red? - Very pale.

- Fix'd his eyes upon you? - Most constantly.

- Would I had been there. - It would have amazed you.

- Very like. Stay'd it long? - One might tell a hundred.

- (BOTH) Longer. - Not when I saw't.

His beard was grizzled...no?

It was as I have seen it in his life, a sable silver'd.

I will watch tonight. Perchance 'twill walk again.

- I warrant it will. - I'll speak to it,

though hell itself should bid me hold my peace.

If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight, let it be tenable in your silence still.

Whatsoever else shall hap tonight, give it an understanding, but no tongue.

I will requite your loves. Fare you well.

Upon the platform 'twixt eleven and twelve I'll visit you.

- Our duty to your honour. - Your loves, as mine to you. Farewell.

My father's spirit...in arms.

All is not well. I doubt some foul play. Would the night were come!

Till then sit still, my soul.

Foul deeds will rise,

though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.

My necessaries are embark'd.

Farewell. And, sister, as the winds give benefit and convoy is assistant,

do not sleep, but let me hear from you.

Do you doubt that?

For Hamlet and the trifling of his favour, hold it a fashion and a toy in blood,

a violet in the youth of primy nature, forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,

the perfume and suppliance of a minute, no more.

No more but so?

Think it no more.

Perhaps he loves you now, but you must fear,

his greatness weigh'd, his will is not his own.

For he himself is subject to his birth.

He may not, as unvalued persons do, carve for himself,

for on his choice depends the sanity of this whole state.

Therefore must his choice be circumscribed

unto the voice and yielding of that body whereof he is the head.

Then if he says he loves you, it fits your wisdom so far to believe it

as he in his particular act and place may give his saying deed,

which is no further than the main voice of Denmark goes withal.

Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain if with too credent ear you list his songs

or lose your heart...or your chaste treasure open to his unmaster'd importunity.

Fear it, Ophelia. Fear it, my dear sister...

..and keep you in the rear of your affection, out of the shot and danger of desire.

I shall the effect of this good lesson keep as watchman to my heart.

But good my brother, do not, as some ungracious pastors do,

show me the steep and thorny way to heaven, whiles like a reckless libertine

himself the primrose path of dalliance treads and recks not his own rede.

O, fear me not.

Yet here, Laertes! Aboard, aboard, for shame!

The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, and you are stay'd for.

There.

My blessing with thee!

And these few precepts in thy memory look thou character.

Give thy thoughts no tongue, nor any unproportioned thought his act.

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.

Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,

grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel,

but do not dull thy palm with entertainment of each new-hatch'd, unfledged courage.

Beware of entrance to a quarrel,

but being in, bear't that the opposed may beware of thee.

Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.

Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, but not express'd in fancy. Rich, not gaudy,

for the apparel oft proclaims the man, and they in France of the best station

are of a most select and generous choice in that.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be,

for loan oft loses both itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

This above all - to thine ownself be true,

and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.

Farewell, my blessing season this in thee.

Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.

The time invites you. Go, your servants tend.

Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well what I have said to you.

'Tis in my memory lock'd, and you yourself shall keep the key of it.

Farewell.

What is't, Ophelia, he hath said to you?

So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.

Marry, well bethought. 'Tis told me, he hath oft of late given private time to you,

and you yourself have of your audience been free and bounteous.

What is between you? Hmm? Give me up the truth.

He hath of late made many tenders of his affection to me.

Affection? (SCOFFS) Pooh!

You speak like a green girl, unsifted in such perilous circumstance.

- Do you believe his "tenders"? - I do not know what I should think.

Marry, I shall teach you. You have ta'en tenders for true pay which are not sterling.

Tender yourself more dearly, or you'll tender me a fool.

He hath importuned me with love in honourable fashion.

Ay, fashion you may call it. Go to.

And hath given countenance to his speech with almost all the holy vows of heaven.

Ay, springes to catch woodcocks.

I do know, when the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows.

These blazes, daughter, giving more light than heat, extinct in both,

even in their promise as they are a-making, you must not take for fire.

In few, Ophelia, do not believe his vows.

This is for all. I would not, from this time forth,

have you so slander any moment's leisure as to talk with the Lord Hamlet.

Look to't, I charge you.

- Come your ways. - I shall obey, my lord.

The air bites shrewdly.

- It is very cold. - It is a nipping, eager air.

- What hour now? - It lacks of twelve.

- No, it is struck. - Indeed? I heard it not.

Then draws near the season wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.

(FANFARE AND CANNONFIRE)

- What does this mean? - The king doth take his rouse,

keeps wassail, and the swaggering upspring reels.

As he drains his draughts of Rhenish,

the kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out the triumph of his pledge.

- Is it a custom? - Ay, marry, is't.

But to my mind, though I am to the manner born,

it is a custom more honour'd in the breach than the observance.

This heavy-headed revel east and west makes us tax'd of other nations.

They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase soil our addition.

Indeed it takes from our achievements the pith and marrow of our attribute.

So, oft it chances in particular men

that for some vicious mole of nature in them, as in their birth,

wherein they are not guilty, since nature cannot choose his origin,

by the o'ergrowth of some complexion, oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason,

or by some habit that too much o'erleavens the form of plausive manners...

..that these men, carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,

being nature's livery or fortune's star, his virtues else as infinite as man may undergo,

shall in the general censure take corruption from that particular fault.

Look, my lord! It comes!

Angels and ministers of grace defend us!

Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,

bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,

be thy intents wicked or charitable, thou comest in such a questionable shape

that I will speak with thee.

I'll call thee Hamlet...king...

..Father...royal Dane...

O, answer me! Let me not burst in ignorance,

but tell why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death, have burst their cerements,

why the sepulchre, wherein we saw thee quietly inurn'd,

hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws to cast thee up again.

What may this mean, that thou, dead corse, again in complete steel

revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon, making night hideous and we fools of nature

so horridly to shake our dispositions with thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?

Say, why is this? Wherefore?

What should we do?

It beckons, as if it some impartment did desire with you.

- It waves you to removed ground. Do not go. - By no means, my lord.

- I will follow it. - Do not!

Why? I do not set my life in a pin's fee,

and for my soul, what can it do to that, being immortal as itself?

It waves me forth. I'll follow it.

What if it tempt you toward the flood or the summit of the cliff

and there assume some other horrible form, which might draw you into madness?

- Think of it! - It waves me still! Go on! I'll follow thee!

- You shall not go, my lord! - Hold off your hands! My fate cries out

and makes each petty artery in this body as hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve!

Still am I call'd. Unhand me, gentlemen.

By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me! I say away!

Go on. I'll follow thee.

- He waxes desperate with imagination. - Let's follow him.

- 'Tis not fit thus to obey him. - Have after.

- To what issue will this come? - Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

- Heaven will direct it. - Nay, let's follow him!

Whither wilt thou lead me?

Speak!

I'll go no further.

- Mark me. - I will.

Soon I to sulph'rous flames must render up myself.

- Alas, poor ghost! - Pity me not,

but lend me thy serious hearing.

Speak. I am bound to hear.

So art thou to revenge when thou shalt hear.

What?

I am thy father's spirit,

doom'd to walk the night, and for the day confin'd to fast in fires,

till the foul crimes done in my days of nature are burnt and purged away.

But that I am forbid, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul,

freeze thy young blood, make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres,

thy knotted locks to part, and each hair to stand on end

like quills upon the fretful porpentine.

But this eternal blazon must not be to ears of flesh and blood. List. O, list.

If thou didst ever thy dear father love...

- O God! - ..revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

- Murder?! - Murder most foul,

as in the best it is, but this most foul and unnatural.

Haste me to know't, that I with wings as swift as meditation

or the thoughts of love may sweep to my revenge.

I find thee apt. Duller shouldst thou be

than the fat weed that roots itself on Lethe wharf, wouldst thou not stir.

Now, Hamlet, hear.

'Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard, a serpent stung me -

so the whole ear of Denmark is by a forged process of my death rankly abused -

but know, noble youth, the serpent that did sting thy father's life now wears his crown.

O my prophetic soul. My uncle!

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 to those of mine.

But virtue, as it never will be moved, 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 my orchard, my custom always of the afternoon,

upon my secure hour thy uncle stole with juice of cursed hebona in a vial,

and in the porches of my ears did pour the leperous distilment,

whose effect holds such an enmity with blood of man that it courses through the body,

and with a sudden vigour doth posset and curd the thin and wholesome blood.

So did it mine, and a most instant tetter bark'd about,

most lazar-like, with 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 dispatch'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. - (HAMLET) O, horrible!

(GHOST) Most horrible.

If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not.

Let not the royal bed of Denmark be a couch for damned incest.

But howsoever thou pursuest this act, taint not thy mind,

nor let thy soul contrive against thy mother aught.

Leave her to heaven 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.

(SOBS)

(WAILS IN ANGUISH) O all you host of heaven!

O earth!

What else? And shall I couple hell?

Fie! Fie!

Hold, hold, my heart!

And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, but bear me stiffly up.

Remember thee? Ay, thou poor ghost, whiles 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 saws 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.

Yes, by heaven. O most pernicious woman!

O villain. Villain! Smiling, damned villain!

My tables. Meet it is I set it down, that one may smile, and smile, and be a villain -

at least it may be so in Denmark.

So, uncle, there you are!

Now to my word. It is "Adieu, adieu, remember me."

I have sworn't.

(HORATIO ) My lord? My lord?

(MARCELLUS) Lord Hamlet? (HORATIO ) Heaven secure him!

- So be it! - (MARCELLUS) Hillo, ho, ho, my lord!

(SCREECHES) Hillo, ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!

- Come, bird, come! - How is't, my noble lord?

- What news? - Wonderful!

- My lord, tell it. - No, you will reveal it.

- Not I, by heaven. - Nor I.

- How say you then, you'll be secret? - Ay, by heaven, my lord.

There's ne'er a villain dwelling in all Denmark...but he's an arrant knave.

There needs no ghost to tell us this.

Why, you are in the right. So I hold it fit that we shake hands and part,

you as your desire shall point you - for every man hath desire, such as it is -

and for mine own poor part, I'll go pray.

- These are but wild and whirling words. - I'm sorry they offend you, heartily.

- Yes faith, heartily. - There's no offence.

Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio, and much offence too.

Touching this vision here, it is an honest ghost.

For your desire to know what is between us, o'ermaster't as you may.

Now, good friends, as you are friends, scholars and soldiers, give me one request.

- What? We will. - Never make known what you have seen.

- We will not. - Nay, but swear't.

- In faith, not I. - Nor I, in faith.

- Upon my sword. - We have sworn already.

Indeed, upon my sword, indeed!

(GHOST) Swear.

(MANIACALLY) Boy, say'st thou so? Art thou there, truepenny?

Come on! You hear this fellow in the cellarage. Consent to swear.

- Propose the oath, my lord. - Never to speak of this.

- Swear by my sword. - (GHOST) Swear.

Hic et ubique? Then we'll shift our ground.

Come hither and lay your hands again upon my sword.

Swear never to speak of this that you have heard.

(GHOST) Swear by his sword.

Well said, old mole! Canst work in the earth so fast?

A worthy pioner! Once more remove, good friends.

Day and night, but this is wondrous strange!

And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.

There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

But come, here, as before, never, how strange or odd soe'er I bear myself -

as I perchance hereafter shall think meet to put an antic disposition on -

that you, seeing me, ne'er shall,

with arms encumber'd thus, or this headshake, or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase

as "Well, well, we know," or "We would and if we could,"

or "If we list to speak," or such ambiguous giving out,

to note that you know aught of me - this do swear,

so grace and mercy at your most need help you.

(GHOST) Swear.

Rest. Rest, perturbed spirit.

So...

Gentlemen, with all my love I do commend me to you.

Let us go in together.

And still your fingers on your lips, I pray!

The time is out of joint.

O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right.

(GASPS, THEN LAUGHS DEMENTEDLY)

Nay, come, let's go together.

Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.

- I will, my lord. - You shall do marvellous wisely,

before you visit him, to make inquire of his behavior.

My lord, I did intend it.

Marry, well said, very well said.

Look you, sir, inquire me first what Danskers are in Paris,

and how, and where they keep, what company, at what expense,

and finding by this drift of question that they do know my son,

come you more nearer than your particular demands will touch it:

Take you, as 'twere some distant knowledge of him,

as thus - "I know his father and his friends, and in part him."

- Do you mark this, Reynaldo? - Very well, my lord.

"And in part him... But", you may say "not well, and if't be he I mean, he's very wild,

"addicted...so and so." and there put on him what forgeries you please,

marry, none so rank as may dishonour him,

but such wanton, wild and usual slips as are companions most known to youth and liberty.

As gaming, my lord.

Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing,

quarrelling...drabbing, you may go so far.

My lord, that would dishonour him.

'Faith, no, as you may season it in the charge.

- But, my good lord... - Wherefore should you do this?

- Ay, I would know that. - Marry, sir, here's my drift -

you laying these slight sullies on my son, your party in converse, him you would sound,

having ever seen in the prenominate crimes the youth you breathe of guilty,

be assured he closes with you in this consequence -

"Good sir,"' or "friend", or "gentleman", according to the addition of man and country.

Very good, my lord.

And then, sir, does a this... Does... What was I about to say?

I was about to say something. Where did I leave?

At "closes in the consequence", at "friend" and "gentleman".

At "closes in the consequence"...?

Ay, marry! He closes thus -

"I know the gentleman. I saw him yesterday" - or t'other day, with such, or such -

and as you say, "there was a gaming", "there o'ertook in's rouse",

"there falling out at tennis", or perchance "I saw him enter such a house of sale"...

videlicet, a brothel, or so forth.

See you now, your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth.

And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, with assays of bias,

by indirections find directions out.

So by my former lecture and advice, shall you my son.

- You have me, have you not? - My lord, I have.

- God be wi' you. - Good my lord!

- Observe his inclination in yourself. - I shall, my lord.

Let him ply his music.

- Well, my lord. - Farewell.

How now, Ophelia!

(SOBS)

- What's the matter? - My lord, I have been so affrighted!

With what, in the name of God?

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 ancle, 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.

- Mad for thy love? - My lord, I do not know, but I do fear it.

- What said he? - 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 raised 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.

Come.

Go with me. I will go seek the king.

This is the very ecstasy of love. Have you given him any hard words of late?

No, my lord, but I did repel his letters and denied his access to me.

That hath made him mad.

I am sorry that with better judgment I had not quoted him.

I fear'd he did but trifle, and meant to wreck thee. Now I'm sorry.

Go we to the king. This must be known,

which, being kept close, might move more grief to hide than hate to utter love.

Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern! Moreover that we much did long to see you,

the need we have to use you did provoke our hasty sending.

Something have you heard of Hamlet's...transformation.

So I call it, sith nor the exterior nor the inward man resembles that it was.

What it should be, more than his father's death,

that hath put him so much from the understanding of himself, I cannot deeme of.

I entreat you both that, being so neighbour'd to his youth and havior,

that you vouchsafe your rest here some little time,

so by your companies to draw him on to pleasures and to gather, so much as you may,

whether aught to us unknown afflicts him thus that, open'd, lies within our remedy.

Good gentlemen, two men there is not living to whom he more adheres.

Both Your Majesties might put your dread pleasures more into command than to entreaty.

But we both obey and give up ourselves in the full bent

to lay our service freely at your feet.

Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.

Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz.

And I beseech you instantly to visit my too much changed son.

Heaven make our presence and our practises pleasant and helpful to him.

Ay.

Amen.

The ambassadors from Norway, my good lord, are joyfully return'd.

Thou still hast been the father of good news.

Have I, my lord?

I assure my liege, I hold my duty as I hold my soul, both to my God and my king,

and I do think - or else this brain hunts not the trail of policy so sure as it did -

that I have found the very cause of Hamlet's lunacy.

O, speak of that. That do I long to hear.

Give first admittance to the ambassadors. My news shall be the fruit to that feast.

Thyself do grace to them and bring them in.

He tells me, dear Gertrude, he hath found the source of all your son's distemper.

I doubt it is no other but the main,

his father's death and our...o'erhasty marriage.

Well...we shall sift him.

(APPLAUSE)

Welcome, my good friends! Say, Voltemand, what from our brother Norway?

Most fair return of greetings and desires.

Upon our first, he sent out to suppress his nephew's levies,

which appear'd to be a preparation 'gainst the Polack.

Better look'd into, he truly found it was against Your Highness,

whereat grieved that so his sickness and impotence was falsely borne in hand,

sends out arrests on Fortinbras, which he, in brief, obeys, receives rebuke from Norway,

and in fine makes vow never more to give the assay of arms against Your Majesty.

Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, gives him threescore thousand crowns in annual fee

and his commission to employ those soldiers so levied as before against the Polack,

with an entreaty that it might please you to give quiet pass

through your dominions for this enterprise

on such regards of safety and allowance as therein are set down.

It likes us well. Go to your rests.

At night we'll feast together. Most welcome home.

This business is well ended.

My liege and madam, to expostulate what majesty should be, what duty is,

why day is day, night night, and time is time, were but to waste night, day and time.

Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,

and tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.

Your noble son is mad.

Mad call I it, for to define true madness, what is't but to be nothing else but mad?

- But let that go. - More matter with less art.

Madam, I swear I use no art at all. That he is mad, 'tis true.

'Tis true 'tis pity, and pity 'tis 'tis true.

A foolish figure - but farewell it, I will use no art.

Mad let us grant him, then. And now remains that we find out the cause of this effect,

or rather say, the cause of this defect, for this effect defective comes by cause.

Thus it remains and the...remainder thus.

Perpend. I have a daughter - have while she is mine -

who in her duty and obedience, mark, hath given me this.

Now gather and surmise.

"To the celestial and my soul's idol, the most beautified Ophelia..."

That's an ill phrase. It's a vile phrase. "Beautified" is a vile phrase.

But you shall hear. Thus, "ln her excellent white bosom, these...et cetera"

Came this from Hamlet to her?

Good madam, stay awhile, I will be faithful.

"Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move,

"Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.

"O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers.

"I have not art to reckon my groans, but that I love thee best, O more best, believe it.

"Adieu. Thine evermore most dear lady,

"whilst this machine is to him, Hamlet."

This, in obedience, hath my daughter shown me.

But how hath she received his love?

- What do you think of me? - As of a man honourable.

I would fain prove so.

But what might you think, when I had seen this hot love on the wing -

as I perceived it before my daughter told me -

what might you or your queen here think if I had play'd the desk or table-book,

or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb, or look'd upon this love with idle sight.

What might you think? No, I went round to work

and my young mistress thus I did bespeak, "Lord Hamlet is a prince. This must not be."

Then I prescripts gave her, that she should lock herself from his resort,

admit no messengers, receive no tokens.

Which done, she took the fruits of my advice; And he, repelled - a short tale to make -

fell into a sadness, thence to a watch, thence into a weakness,

thence into a lightness, and by this declension,

into the madness wherein now he raves, and all we mourn for.

Do you think 'tis this?

- It may be, very likely. - Take this from this if this be otherwise.

How may we try it further?

You know sometimes he walks four hours together here in the lobby.

At such a time, I'll loose my daughter to him.

Be you and I behind an arras then, mark the encounter.

If he love her not, let me be no assistant for a state, but keep a farm and carters.

We will try it.

But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.

Away, I do beseech you, both away. I'll board him presently.

- How does my good Lord Hamlet? - Well... God-a-mercy.

- Do you know me, my lord? - Excellent well.

- You are a fishmonger. - Not I.

- Then I would you were so honest a man. - Honest?

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

- That's very true, my lord. - If the sun breed maggots in a dead dog...

- Have you a daughter? - I have, my lord.

Let her not walk i' the 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, said I was a fishmonger. A is far gone, far gone.

And yet in my youth I suffered much extremity for love, very near this.

I'll speak to him again.

What do you read, my lord?

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 plum-tree gum...

..that they have a plentiful lack of wit and weak hams,

all which, though I most potently believe,

yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down, for you yourself, sir, shall grow old as I am,

if like a crab you could go backward.

(CHUCKLES)

Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.

I'll speak to him again.

- My lord, will you walk out of the air. - lnto my grave?

Indeed, that's out of the air.

How pregnant sometimes his replies are! My lord, I will take my leave of you.

You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal...

except my life...

except my life...except my life!

Fare you well, my lord.

These tedious old fools.

You seek the Lord Hamlet.

- There he is. - 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 ye both?

- As the indifferent children of the earth. - Happy in that we are not over-happy.

- On fortune's cap we are not the button. - Nor the soles of her shoe.

- Then you live about her waist. - Faith, her privates we.

(ALL LAUGH COARSELY)

In the secret parts of fortune?

O, 'tis true...she is a strumpet.

What news?

None, my lord...but that the world's grown honest.

Then is doomsday near.

But your news is not true.

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?

- Prison, my lord? - Denmark's a prison.

- Then is the world one. - One in which there are many dungeons.

- Denmark being one of the worst. - We think not so.

Then, 'tis none to you. For there is nothing either good or bad

but thinking makes it so.

To me it is a prison.

Why, then your ambition makes it one; 'tis too narrow for your mind.

O God, I could be bounded in a nut shell and count myself a king of infinite space

were it not that...l have bad dreams.

Which dreams indeed are ambition,

for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.

A dream itself is but a shadow. Shall we to the court?

- (BOTH) We'll wait upon you. - No such matter.

I will not sort you with the rest of my servants, for I am most dreadfully attended.

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 even poor in thanks, but I thank you.

And sure, 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. Nay, speak.

- What should we say, my lord? - Why, anything, but to the purpose.

You were sent for. 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 and the obligation of our love,

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 appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.

What a 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. - (LAUGHS)

No, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.

- There was no such stuff in my thoughts. - Why did you laugh then?

To think if you delight not in man, what entertainment the players shall receive.

We coted them on the way. Hither are they coming to offer you service.

He that plays the king shall be welcome. His Majesty shall have tribute of me.

- What players are they? - Those you were wont to take delight in.

How chances it they travel?

Their residence, both in reputation and profit, was better both ways.

Their inhibition comes by means of the late innovation.

Do they hold the same estimation as they did?

- No, indeed. - Do they grow rusty?

Their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace, but there is 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

that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills and dare scarce come thither.

What, are they children? Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing?

Will they not say when they shall grow themselves to common players?

Their writers make them exclaim against their own succession.

There's been much to do. The nation holds it no sin to tar them to controversy.

It is not very strange, for my uncle is the king of Denmark,

and those that would make mows at him while my father lived

now give a hundred ducats apiece for his picture in little.

'Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out.

(FANFARE)

There are the players. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands.

The appurtenance of welcome is fashion. Let me comply with you in this garb.

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 - at each ear a hearer.

That great baby is not yet out of his swaddling-clouts.

I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players; mark it.

You say right, sir, Monday morning; 'twas then indeed.

My lord, I have news.

(MOCKINGLY) 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, tragical-historical...

(BOTH) ..tragical-comical-historical-pastoral...

..scene individable or poem unlimited -

Seneca cannot be too heavy or Plautus too light. These are the only men.

O Jephthah, judge of lsrael, what a treasure hadst thou!

- What a treasure had he, my lord? - Why, "One fair daughter and no more,

"The which he loved passing well."

- Still on my daughter. - Am I not in the right?

I have a daughter that I love passing well.

- Nay, that follows not. - What follows, then, my lord?

Why, "As by lot...God wot..."

But look where my abridgement comes!

(LAUGHTER AND MUSIC)

Welcome, all. I am glad to see thee well.

Welcome, good friends.

Ah, my old friend!

Why, thy face is valenced since I saw thee last. Com'st thou to beard me in Denmark?

What, my young lady and mistress?

Your ladyship is nearer to heaven than when I saw you last by the altitude of a chopine.

Pray God your voice, like apiece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within the ring.

(SINGS HIGH NOTE)

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, a passionate speech.

- What speech, my good lord? - I heard thee speak me a speech once,

but it was never acted, or not above once, for the play pleased not the million.

'Twas caviare to the general. One speech in it I chiefly loved.

'Twas Aeneas' tale to Dido,

and thereabout of it especially where he speaks of Priam's slaughter.

If it live within your memory, begin at this line -

let me see, let me see... "The rugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast..."

No. 'Tis not so. It begins with Pyrrhus.

"The rugged Pyrrhus...he whose sable arms,

"Black as his purpose, did the night resemble

"When he lay couched in the ominous horse,

"Hath now this dread and black complexion smear'd

"With heraldry more dismal. Head to foot

"Now is he total gules, roasted in wrath and fire,

"And thus o'er-sized with coagulate gore,

"With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus

"Old grandsire Priam seeks."

- So, proceed you. - 'Fore God, my lord, well spoken,

with good accent and good discretion.

"Anon he finds him, Striking too short at Greeks.

"His antique sword, Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls,

"Repugnant to command. Unequal match'd,

"Pyrrhus at Priam drives, in rage strikes wide;

"But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword

"The unnerved father falls.

"Then senseless llium, Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top

"Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash Takes prisoner Pyrrhus' ear..."

- 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.

- "But who had seen the mobbled queen..." - The mobbled queen.

Oh, that's good. Mobbled queen's good.

"..run barefoot up and down, threat'ning the flames

"With bisson rheum, a clout upon that head Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe,

"About her lank and all o'er-teemed loins, A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up -

"Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep'd,

"'Gainst Fortune's state would treason have pronounced:

"But if the gods themselves did see her then,

"When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport

"In mincing with his sword her husband's limbs,

"The instant burst of clamour that she made,

"Unless things mortal move them not at all,

"Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven,

"And passion in the gods!"

Look, whe'er he has not changed 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?

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.

- I shall use them according to their desert. - God's bodykins, 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 study a speech of some dozen 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! - (THEY LAUGH)

I'll leave you till night. You are welcome to Elsinore.

- Good my lord. - Ay, so.

God buy you.

Now...

..I am alone.

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 so 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.

Yet I, 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 in the throat as deep as to the lungs?

Who does me this? Ha!

'Swounds, I should take it,

for 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!

O, vengeance!

Why, what an ass am l!

This is most brave,

that I, the son of a dear father murder'd,

prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, must like a whore unpack my heart with words,

and fall a-cursing, like a very drab, a scullion! Fie upon't! Foh!

About, my brain.

I have heard that guilty creatures sitting at a play

have by the very cunning of the scene been struck so to the soul

that presently they have proclaim'd their malefactions,

for murder, though it have no tongue, will speak with most miraculous organ.

I'll have these players play something like my father's murder before mine uncle.

I'll observe his looks. I'll tent him to the quick.

If he but blench, I know my course.

The spirit that I have seen may be a devil,

and the devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape,

yea...and perhaps out of my weakness and my melancholy,

as he is very potent with such spirits, abuses me

to damn...me.

I'll have grounds more relative than this.

The play's the thing

wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.

Can you, by no drift of conference, get from him why he puts on this confusion,

grating so harshly all his days of quiet with turbulent and dangerous lunacy?

He does confess he feels himself distracted, but from what cause will by no means speak.

Nor do we find him forward to be sounded,

but with a crafty madness keeps aloof when we would bring him on to confess his true state.

- Did he receive you well? - Like a gentleman.

- But with much forcing of his disposition. - Niggard of question, but free in his reply.

- Did you assay him to any pastime? - Certain players we o'erraught on the way.

There did seem in him a kind of joy to hear of it:

They have already order to play before him.

'Tis most true. He beseech'd me to entreat Your Majesties to see the matter.

With all my heart, and it doth much content me to hear him so inclined.

Good gentlemen, drive his purpose in to these delights.

- We shall, my lord. - Sweet Gertrude, leave us too,

for we have sent for Hamlet hither that he, as 'twere by accident, may here affront Ophelia.

Her father and myself, lawful espials, will so bestow ourselves that, seeing unseen,

we may of their encounter frankly judge, and gather by him, as he is behaved,

if't be th'affliction of his love or no that thus he suffers for.

I shall obey you.

Ophelia, I do wish that your good beauties be the happy cause of Hamlet's wildness.

So shall I hope your virtues will bring him to his wonted ways again,

to both your honours.

Madam, I wish it may.

Ophelia, walk you here. Gracious, so please you, we will bestow ourselves.

Read on this book, that show of such an exercise may colour your loneliness.

We are oft to blame in this. With pious action we do sugar o'er the devil himself.

O, 'tis too true.

How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience.

The harlot's cheek, beautied with plastering art,

is not more ugly to the thing that helps it than is my deed to my most painted word.

- O heavy burden! - I hear him coming. Let's withdraw, my lord.

To be...or not to be...

that is the question -

whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

and by opposing end them.

To die...

..to sleep...

..no more, and by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache

and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to,

'tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd.

To die...

..to sleep...

...to sleep, perchance to dream.

Ay, there's the rub.

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause.

There's the respect that makes calamity of so long life.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong,

the proud man's contumely...

..the pangs of despised love...

..the law's delay, the insolence of office, the spurns that merit of the unworthy takes,

when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin?

Who would these fardels bear,

to grunt and sweat under a weary life,

but that the dread of something after death...

the undiscover'd country

from whose bourn no traveller returns, puzzles the will...

and makes us rather bear those ills we have

than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,

and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

and enterprises of great pitch and moment with this regard their currents turn awry...

and lose the name of action.

Soft you now, the fair Ophelia!

Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remember'd.

Good my lord, how does your honour for this many a day?

(LAUGHS MOCKINGLY)

I humbly thank you. Well, well, well.

My lord, I have remembrances of yours, that I have longed long to redeliver.

- I pray you, now receive them. - No, not I.

I never gave you aught.

My honour'd lord, you know right well you did,

and with them words of so sweet breath composed as made the things more rich.

Their perfume lost, take these again,

for to the noble mind rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.

- There, my lord. - Ha... Ha...

- Are you honest? - My lord?

- Are you fair? - What means your lordship?

Your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.

Could beauty have better commerce than with honesty?

Ay, for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is into a bawd

than 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 nunnery. Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?

Myself, I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me.

(SHOUTS) I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious,

with more offences at my beck than I have time to act them in.

What should such fellows as I do? We are arrant knaves, all. Believe none of us.

Go thy ways to a nunnery.

Where's your father?

At home, my lord.

Let the doors be shut upon him,

(SOBS) that he may play the fool nowhere but in his own house.

- Farewell. - O, help him, you sweet heavens!

If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry - be thou as pure as snow,

thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery.

Or if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool.

For wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them.

To a nunnery, go, and quickly too. Farewell.

- Heavenly powers, restore him! - I have heard of your paintings too!

God has given you one face, you make another. You jig, amble, lisp,

you nick-name God's creatures, you make your wantonness your ignorance.

Go to, I'll no more on't!

It hath made me mad.

I say, we will have no more marriages.

Those that are married already, all but one, shall live.

The rest shall keep as they are.

To a nunnery, go.

O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!

The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, tongue, sword,

the expectancy and rose of the fair state, the glass of fashion and the mould of form,

the observed of all observers, quite, quite down.

And I, of ladies most deject and wretched...

..that suck'd the honey of his music vows, now see that noble and most sovereign reason

like sweet bells jangled out of time and harsh,

that unmatch'd form and feature of blown youth blasted with ecstasy.

O, woe is me to have seen what I have seen...

..see what I see.

Love? His affections do not that way tend,

nor what he spake, though it lack'd form a little, was not like madness.

There's something in his soul o'er which his melancholy sits on brood.

I do doubt the hatch will be some danger,

which to prevent, he shall to England for the demand of our neglected tribute.

Haply the seas and countries different with variable objects

shall expel this something-settled matter in his heart,

whereon his brains still beating puts him from fashion of himself.

It shall do well, but yet do I believe his grief sprung from neglected love.

How now, Ophelia. You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said. We heard it all.

My lord, do as you please, but if you hold it fit,

after the play let his queen-mother entreat him to show his grief.

Let her be round with him. I'll be placed in the ear of their conference.

If she find him not, to England send him,

or confine him where your wisdom best shall think.

It shall be so.

Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd go.

Speak the speech as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue,

but if you mouth it, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines.

Nor do not saw the air too much with your hands, thus, but use all gently;

for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion,

you must acquire a temperance that may give it smoothness.

- I warrant your honour. - Be not too tame neither.

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 overdone 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 own 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 make the unskilful laugh,

cannot but make the judicious grieve;

the censure of the which one must in your allowance outweigh a theatre of others.

- Mmm... - (ALL LAUGH)

Go make you ready.

How now? Will the king hear this piece of work?

- And the queen too, and that presently. - Bid the players make haste!

- Will you two help to hasten them? - We will.

What ho, Horatio.

Here, sweet lord, at your service.

Horatio?

Thou art e'en as just a man as e'er my conversation coped withal.

- My dear lord... - Do not think I flatter.

What advancement may I hope from thee that no revenue hast but thy good spirits to feed thee?

Why should the poor be flatter'd? Dost thou hear?

Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice and could of men distinguish,

her election hath seal'd thee for herself.

For thou hast been as one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing,

a man that fortune's buffets and rewards hast ta'en with equal thanks,

and blest are those whose blood and judgment are so well commeddled

that they are not a pipe for fortune's fingers to sound what stop she please.

Give me that man that is not passion's slave,

and I will wear him in my heart's core,

ay, in my heart of heart...as I do thee.

Something too much of this.

There is a play tonight before the king.

One scene of it comes near the circumstance which I have told thee of my father's death.

When thou seest that act afoot, even with the very comment of thy soul observe my uncle.

If his occulted guilt do not itself unkennel, it is a damned ghost that we have seen,

and my imaginations are as foul as Vulcan's stithy.

Well, my lord, if he steal aught whilst this play is playing and 'scape detecting,

- I will pay the theft. - (FANFARE)

They are coming to the play. I must be idle.

Get you a place.

Ah!

- 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.

My lord, you played once in the 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 in the Capitol. Brutus killed me.

'Twas a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there.

(ALL LAUGH)

- Be the players ready? - They stay upon your patience.

Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me.

No, good Mother, here's metal more attractive.

- Do you mark that? - Shall I lie in your lap?

- No, my lord. - I mean, my head upon your lap?

- Ay, my lord. - Did you think I meant country matters?

I think nothing, my lord.

A fair thought to lie between maids' legs.

- What is, my lord? - Nothing.

- You are merry, my lord. - Who, I? 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 these two hours.

- Nay, 'tis twice two months, my lord. - So long?

Let the devil wear black, for I'll have a suit of sables. O heavens!

Died two months and not forgotten yet!

Then there's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year.

(MERRY CHAMBER MUSIC)

(SINISTER MUSIC)

- What means this, my lord? - Marry, this is miching mallecho.