Act II. Scene I. Elsinore. A room in the house of Polonius.  Enter Polonius and Reynaldo.    Pol. Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.   Rey. I will, my lord.   Pol. You shall do marvell's wisely, good Reynaldo,     Before You visit him, to make inquire     Of his behaviour.   Rey. My lord, I did intend it.   Pol. Marry, well said, very well said. Look you, sir,     Enquire me first what Danskers are in Paris;     And how, and who, what means, and where they keep,     What company, at what expense; and finding     By this encompassment and 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?   Rey. Ay, very well, my lord.   Pol. 'And in part him, but,' you may say, 'not well.     But 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- take heed of that;     But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips     As are companions noted and most known     To youth and liberty.   Rey. As gaming, my lord.   Pol. Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrelling,     Drabbing. You may go so far.   Rey. My lord, that would dishonour him.   Pol. Faith, no, as you may season it in the charge.     You must not put another scandal on him,     That he is open to incontinency.     That's not my meaning. But breathe his faults so quaintly     That they may seem the taints of liberty,     The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind,     A savageness in unreclaimed blood,     Of general assault.   Rey. But, my good lord-   Pol. Wherefore should you do this?   Rey. Ay, my lord,     I would know that.   Pol. Marry, sir, here's my drift,     And I believe it is a fetch of warrant.     You laying these slight sullies on my son     As 'twere a thing a little soil'd i' th' working,     Mark you,     Your party in converse, him you would sound,     Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes     The youth you breathe of guilty, be assur'd     He closes with you in this consequence:     'Good sir,' or so, or 'friend,' or 'gentleman'-     According to the phrase or the addition     Of man and country-   Rey. Very good, my lord.   Pol. 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?   Rey. At 'closes in the consequence,' at 'friend or so,' and     gentleman.'   Pol. At 'closes in the consequence'- Ay, marry!     He closes thus: 'I know the gentleman.     I saw him yesterday, or t'other day,     Or then, or then, 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 windlasses and 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   Rey. My lord, I have.   Pol. God b' wi' ye, fare ye well!   Rey. Good my lord!                                    [Going.]   Pol. Observe his inclination in yourself.   Rey. I shall, my lord.   Pol. And let him ply his music.   Rey. Well, my lord.   Pol. Farewell!                                                   Exit Reynaldo.                         Enter Ophelia.      How now, Ophelia? What's the matter?   Oph. O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!   Pol. With what, i' th' name of God I   Oph. 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,     Ungart'red, and down-gyved to his ankle;     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.   Pol. Mad for thy love?   Oph. My lord, I do not know,     But truly I do fear it.   Pol. What said he?   Oph. 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 rais'd 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 help     And to the last bended their light on me.   Pol. Come, go with me. I will go seek the King.     This is the very ecstasy of love,     Whose violent property fordoes itself     And leads the will to desperate undertakings     As oft as any passion under heaven     That does afflict our natures. I am sorry.     What, have you given him any hard words of late?   Oph. No, my good lord; but, as you did command,     I did repel his letters and denied     His access to me.   Pol. That hath made him mad.     I am sorry that with better heed and judgment     I had not quoted him. I fear'd he did but trifle     And meant to wrack thee; but beshrew my jealousy!     By heaven, it is as proper to our age     To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions     As it is common for the younger sort     To lack discretion. Come, go we to the King.     This must be known; which, being kept close, might move     More grief to hide than hate to utter love.     Come.                                                          Exeunt.  Scene II. Elsinore. A room in the Castle.  Flourish. [Enter King and Queen, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, cum aliis.    King. 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 th' exterior nor the inward man     Resembles that it was. What it should be,     More than his father's death, that thus hath put him     So much from th' understanding of himself,     I cannot dream of. I entreat you both     That, being of so young clays brought up with him,     And since so neighbour'd to his youth and haviour,     That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court     Some little time; so by your companies     To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather     So much as from occasion you may glean,     Whether aught to us unknown afflicts him thus     That, open'd, lies within our remedy.   Queen. Good gentlemen, he hath much talk'd of you,     And sure I am two men there are not living     To whom he more adheres. If it will please you     To show us so much gentry and good will     As to expend your time with us awhile     For the supply and profit of our hope,     Your visitation shall receive such thanks     As fits a king's remembrance.   Ros. Both your Majesties     Might, by the sovereign power you have of us,     Put your dread pleasures more into command     Than to entreaty.   Guil. But we both obey,     And here give up ourselves, in the full bent,     To lay our service freely at your feet,     To be commanded.   King. Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.   Queen. Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz.     And I beseech you instantly to visit     My too much changed son.- Go, some of you,     And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is.   Guil. Heavens make our presence and our practices     Pleasant and helpful to him!   Queen. Ay, amen!                  Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, [with some                                                     Attendants].                           Enter Polonius.    Pol. Th' ambassadors from Norway, my good lord,     Are joyfully return'd.   King. Thou still hast been the father of good news.   Pol. Have I, my lord? Assure you, my good liege,     I hold my duty as I hold my soul,     Both to my God and to my gracious king;     And I do think- or else this brain of mine     Hunts not the trail of policy so sure     As it hath us'd to do- that I have found     The very cause of Hamlet's lunacy.   King. O, speak of that! That do I long to hear.   Pol. Give first admittance to th' ambassadors.     My news shall be the fruit to that great feast.   King. Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in.                                                 [Exit Polonius.]     He tells me, my dear Gertrude, he hath found     The head and source of all your son's distemper.   Queen. I doubt it is no other but the main,     His father's death and our o'erhasty marriage.   King. Well, we shall sift him.                Enter Polonius, Voltemand, and Cornelius.      Welcome, my good friends.     Say, Voltemand, what from our brother Norway?   Volt. Most fair return of greetings and desires.     Upon our first, he sent out to suppress     His nephew's levies; which to him appear'd     To be a preparation 'gainst the Polack,     But better look'd into, he truly found     It was against your Highness; whereat griev'd,     That so his sickness, age, 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 before his uncle never more     To give th' assay of arms against your Majesty.     Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy,     Gives him three thousand crowns in annual fee     And his commission to employ those soldiers,     So levied as before, against the Polack;     With an entreaty, herein further shown,                                                 [Gives a paper.]     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.   King. It likes us well;     And at our more consider'd time we'll read,     Answer, and think upon this business.     Meantime we thank you for your well-took labour.     Go to your rest; at night we'll feast together.     Most welcome home!                       Exeunt Ambassadors.   Pol. This business is well ended.     My liege, and madam, to expostulate     What majesty should be, what duty is,     Why day is day, night is night, and time is time.     Were nothing 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.   Queen. More matter, with less art.   Pol. 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, for 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.                                              [Reads] the letter.     '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:                                                         [Reads.]     'In her excellent white bosom, these, &c.'   Queen. Came this from Hamlet to her?   Pol. Good madam, stay awhile. I will be faithful.     [Reads.]            '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 most best, believe     it. Adieu.       'Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him,                                                           HAMLET.'      This, in obedience, hath my daughter shown me;     And more above, hath his solicitings,     As they fell out by time, by means, and place,     All given to mine ear.   King. But how hath she     Receiv'd his love?   Pol. What do you think of me?   King. As of a man faithful and honourable.   Pol. I would fain prove so. But what might you think,     When I had seen this hot love on the wing     (As I perceiv'd it, I must tell you that,     Before my daughter told me), what might you,     Or my dear Majesty 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, out of thy star.     This must not be.' And 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, repulsed, a short tale to make,     Fell into a sadness, then into a fast,     Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness,     Thence to a lightness, and, by this declension,     Into the madness wherein now he raves,     And all we mourn for.   King. Do you think 'tis this?   Queen. it may be, very like.   Pol. Hath there been such a time- I would fain know that-     That I have Positively said ''Tis so,'     When it prov'd otherwise.?   King. Not that I know.   Pol. [points to his head and shoulder] Take this from this, if this       be otherwise.     If circumstances lead me, I will find     Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed     Within the centre.   King. How may we try it further?   Pol. You know sometimes he walks four hours together     Here in the lobby.   Queen. So he does indeed.   Pol. 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,     And he not from his reason fall'n thereon     Let me be no assistant for a state,     But keep a farm and carters.   King. We will try it.                   Enter Hamlet, reading on a book.    Queen. But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.   Pol. Away, I do beseech you, both away     I'll board him presently. O, give me leave.                        Exeunt King and Queen, [with Attendants].     How does my good Lord Hamlet?   Ham. Well, God-a-mercy.   Pol. Do you know me, my lord?   Ham. Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.   Pol. Not I, my lord.   Ham. Then I would you were so honest a man.   Pol. Honest, my lord?   Ham. Ay, sir. To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man     pick'd out of ten thousand.   Pol. That's very true, my lord.   Ham. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god     kissing carrion- Have you a daughter?   Pol. I have, my lord.   Ham. Let her not walk i' th' sun. Conception is a blessing, but not     as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to't.   Pol. [aside] How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter. Yet     he knew me not at first. He said I was a fishmonger. He is far     gone, far gone! And truly in my youth I suff'red much extremity     for love- very near this. I'll speak to him again.- What do you     read, my lord?   Ham. Words, words, words.   Pol. What is the matter, my lord?   Ham. Between who?   Pol. I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.   Ham. 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; 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 you yourself, sir,     should be old as I am if, like a crab, you could go backward.   Pol. [aside] Though this be madness, yet there is a method in't.-    Will You walk out of the air, my lord?   Ham. Into my grave?   Pol. Indeed, that is out o' th' air. [Aside] 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.- My honourable lord, I will most humbly take     my leave of you.   Ham. You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more     willingly part withal- except my life, except my life, except my     life,                      Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.    Pol. Fare you well, my lord.   Ham. These tedious old fools!   Pol. You go to seek the Lord Hamlet. There he is.   Ros. [to Polonius] God save you, sir!                                                 Exit [Polonius].   Guil. My honour'd lord!   Ros. My most dear lord!   Ham. My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah,     Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do ye both?   Ros. As the indifferent children of the earth.   Guil. Happy in that we are not over-happy.     On Fortune's cap we are not the very button.   Ham. Nor the soles of her shoe?   Ros. Neither, my lord.   Ham. Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her     favours?   Guil. Faith, her privates we.   Ham. In the secret parts of Fortune? O! most true! she is a     strumpet. What news ?   Ros. None, my lord, but that the world's grown honest.   Ham. 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?   Guil. Prison, my lord?   Ham. Denmark's a prison.   Ros. Then is the world one.   Ham. A goodly one; in which there are many confines, wards, and     dungeons, Denmark being one o' th' worst.   Ros. We think not so, my lord.   Ham. 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.   Ros. Why, then your ambition makes it one. 'Tis too narrow for your     mind.   Ham. 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.   Guil. Which dreams indeed are ambition; for the very substance of     the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.   Ham. A dream itself is but a shadow.   Ros. Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that     it is but a shadow's shadow.   Ham. Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and outstretch'd     heroes the beggars' shadows. Shall we to th' court? for, by my     fay, I cannot reason.   Both. We'll wait upon you.   Ham. 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. But in the beaten way of friendship, what     make you at Elsinore?   Ros. To visit you, my lord; no other occasion.   Ham. Beggar that I am, I am even 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, deal justly with me. Come, come! Nay, speak.   Guil. What should we say, my lord?   Ham. Why, 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.   Ros. To what end, my lord?   Ham. 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 could charge you withal, be even and direct with     me, whether you were sent for or no.   Ros. [aside to Guildenstern] What say you?   Ham. [aside] Nay then, I have an eye of you.- If you love me, hold     not off.   Guil. My lord, we were sent for.   Ham. 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 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- no, nor woman     neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.   Ros. My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts.   Ham. Why did you laugh then, when I said 'Man delights not me'?   Ros. 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.   Ham. He that plays the king shall be welcome- his Majesty shall     have tribute of 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; the clown shall make those laugh whose     lungs are tickle o' th' sere; and the lady shall say her mind     freely, or the blank verse shall halt fort. What players are     they?   Ros. Even those you were wont to take such delight in, the     tragedians of the city.   Ham. How chances it they travel? Their residence, both in     reputation and profit, was better both ways.   Ros. I think their inhibition comes by the means of the late     innovation.   Ham. Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the     city? Are they so follow'd?   Ros. No indeed are they not.   Ham. How comes it? Do they grow rusty?   Ros. 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 clapp'd fort. These are now     the fashion, and so berattle the common stages (so they call     them) that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goosequills and     dare scarce come thither.   Ham. What, are they children? Who maintains 'em? How are they     escoted? 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.   Ros. Faith, there has been much to do on both sides; and the nation     holds it no sin to tarre 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.   Ham. Is't possible?   Guil. O, there has been much throwing about of brains.   Ham. Do the boys carry it away?   Ros. Ay, that they do, my lord- Hercules and his load too.   Ham. It is not very strange; for my uncle is King of Denmark, and     those that would make mows 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.                       Flourish for the Players.    Guil. There are the players.   Ham. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come! 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 deceiv'd.   Guil. In what, my dear lord?   Ham. I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly I     know a hawk from a handsaw.                              Enter Polonius.    Pol. Well be with you, gentlemen!   Ham. 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.   Ros. Happily he's the second time come to them; for they say an old     man is twice a child.   Ham. I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players. Mark it.-    You say right, sir; a Monday morning; twas so indeed.   Pol. My lord, I have news to tell you.   Ham. My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in     Rome-   Pol. The actors are come hither, my lord.   Ham. Buzz, buzz!   Pol. Upon my honour-   Ham. Then came each actor on his ass-   Pol. The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy,     history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral,     tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral; 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.   Ham. O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou!   Pol. What treasure had he, my lord?   Ham. Why,           'One fair daughter, and no more,            The which he loved passing well.'    Pol. [aside] Still on my daughter.   Ham. Am I not i' th' right, old Jephthah?   Pol. If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I     love passing well.   Ham. Nay, that follows not.   Pol. What follows then, my lord?   Ham. Why,             'As by lot, God wot,'   and then, you know,             'It came to pass, as most like it was.'      The first row of the pious chanson will show you more; for look     where my abridgment comes.                       Enter four or five Players.      You are welcome, masters; welcome, all.- I am glad to see thee     well.- Welcome, good friends.- O, my old friend? Why, thy face is     valanc'd since I saw thee last. Com'st' thou to' beard me in     Denmark?- What, my young lady and mistress? By'r 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 crack'd 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.   1. Play. What speech, my good lord?   Ham. 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, pleas'd     not the million, 'twas caviary to the general; but it was (as I     receiv'd it, and others, whose judgments 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 savoury,     nor no matter in the phrase that might indict the author of     affectation; but call'd it an honest method, as wholesome as     sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine. One speech in't     I chiefly lov'd. 'Twas AEneas' tale to Dido, and thereabout of it     especially where he speaks of Priam's slaughter. If it live in     your memory, begin at this line- let me see, let me see:           'The rugged Pyrrhus, like th' Hyrcanian beast-'      '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 be total gules, horridly trick'd          With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons,          Bak'd and impasted with the parching streets,          That lend a tyrannous and a damned light          To their lord's murther. Roasted in wrath and fire,          And thus o'ersized with coagulate gore,          With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus          Old grandsire Priam seeks.'      So, proceed you.   Pol. Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and good      discretion.    1. Play. '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       Th' unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium,       Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top       Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash       Takes prisoner Pyrrhus' ear. For lo! his sword,       Which was declining on the milky head       Of reverend Priam, seem'd i' th' air to stick.       So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood,       And, like a neutral to his will and matter,       Did nothing.       But, as we often see, against some storm,       A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still,       The bold winds speechless, and the orb below       As hush as death- anon the dreadful thunder       Doth rend the region; so, after Pyrrhus' pause,       Aroused vengeance sets him new awork;       And never did the Cyclops' hammers fall       On Mars's armour, forg'd for proof eterne,       With less remorse than Pyrrhus' bleeding sword       Now falls on Priam.       Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune! All you gods,       In general synod take away her power;       Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel,       And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven,       As low as to the fiends!    Pol. This is too long.   Ham. 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.    1. Play. 'But who, O who, had seen the mobled queen-'    Ham. 'The mobled queen'?   Pol. That's good! 'Mobled queen' is good.    1. Play. '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'erteemed 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 pronounc'd.       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.'    Pol. Look, whe'r he has not turn'd his colour, and has tears in's     eyes. Prithee no more!   Ham. 'Tis well. I'll have thee speak out the rest of this soon.-     Good my lord, will you see the players well bestow'd? Do you     hear? Let them be well us'd; 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.   Pol. My lord, I will use them according to their desert.   Ham. God's bodykins, man, much better! Use every man after his     desert, and who should scape whipping? Use them after your own     honour and dignity. The less they deserve, the more merit is in     your bounty. Take them in.   Pol. Come, sirs.   Ham. Follow him, friends. We'll hear a play to-morrow.                  Exeunt Polonius and Players [except the First].     Dost thou hear me, old friend? Can you play 'The Murther of     Gonzago'?   1. Play. Ay, my lord.   Ham. We'll ha't to-morrow night. You could, for a need, study a     speech of some dozen or sixteen lines which I would set down and     insert in't, could you not?   1. Play. Ay, my lord.   Ham. Very well. Follow that lord- and look you mock him not.                                             [Exit First Player.]     My good friends, I'll leave you till night. You are welcome to     Elsinore.   Ros. Good my lord!   Ham. Ay, so, God b' wi' ye!                             [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern     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 th' nose? gives me the lie i' th' throat     As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this, ha?     'Swounds, I should take it! for it cannot be     But 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 I! This is most brave,     That I, the son of a dear father murther'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! Hum, 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 murther, though it have no tongue, will speak     With most miraculous organ, I'll have these Players     Play something like the murther of my father     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     T' 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.         Exit.