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Enter Queen and Polonius.

Polo. He will come straight:

Look you lay home to him,

Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with,

And that your Grace hath screen’d, and stood between

Much heat and him. I’le silence me e’ne here:

Pray you be round with him.

Ham, within. Mother, mother, mother.

Queen. I’le warrant you, fear me not.

Withdraw, I hear him coming.

Enter Hamlet.

Ham. Now, Mother, what’s the matter?

Que. Hamlet, thou hast thy Father much offended.

Ham. Mother, you have my Father much offended.

Que. Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.

Ham. Come, go, you question with an idle tongue.

Que. Why how now, Hamlet?

Ham. What’s the matter now?

Que. Have you forgot me?

Ham. No, by the Rood, not so:

You are the Queen, your Husbands Brothers Wife,

But would you were not so. You are my Mother.

Que. Nay, then I’ll set those to you that can speak.

Ham. Come, come, and sit you down, you shall not budge:

You go not till I set up a Glass.

Where you may see the inmost part of you?

Que. What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murther me?

Help, Help, ho.

Pol. What ho, help, help, help.

Ham. How now, a Rat? dead for a Ducate, dead.

Pol. Oh I am slain. [Kills Polonius.

Que. Oh me, what hast thou done?

Ham. Nay I know not, is it the King?

Que. Oh what a rash and bloody deed is this?

Ham. A bloody deed, almost as bad, good Mother,

As kill a King, and marry with his Brother.

Que. As kill’d a King?

Ham. I , Lady, ‘twas my word.

Thou wretched, rash, intruding Fool, farewel,

I took thee for thy Betters, take thy fortune,

Thou find’st to be too busie, is some danger.

Leave wringing of your hands, peace, sit you down,

And let me wring your heart, for so I shall

If it be made of penetrable stuff;

If damned Custom have not braz’d it so,

That it is proof and bulwark against Sense.

Qu. What have I done, that thou dar’st wag thy tongue,

In noise so rude against me?

Ham. Such an Act

That blurs the grace and blush of Modesty,

Calls Virtue Hypocrite, takes off the Rose

From the fair Fore-head of an innocent love,

And makes a blister there. Makes marriage vows

As false as Dicers Oaths. O such a Deed,

As from the body of contraction plucks

The very Soul, and sweet Religion makes

A rhapsody of words. Heavens face doth glow,

Yea this solidity and compound mass,

With tristful visage as against the doom,

Is thought-sick at the act.

Que. Aye me, what act, that roars so loud, and thunders in the Index.

Ham. Look here upon this Picture, and on this,

The counterfeit presentment of two Brothers:

See what a grace seated on his Brow,

Hyperions Curls, the front of Jove himself,

An Eye like Mars, to threaten or command

A Station like the Herald Mercury,

Now lighted on a Heaven kissing Hill:

A Combination, and a form indeed,

Where every god did seem to set his Seal,

To give the World assurance of a man.

This was your Husband. Look you now what follows.

Here is your Husband, like a Mildew’d Deer

Blasting his wholsome breath. Have you Eyes?

Could you on this fair Mountain leave to feed,

And batten on this Moore? Ha? have you Eyes?

You cannot call it Love: For at your Age,

They hey day in the blood is tame, it’s humble,

And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment

Would step from this to this? What devil was’t

That thus hath cozen’d you at Hoodman-blind?

O Shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious Hell,

If thou canst mutine in a Matrons bones,

To flaming youth, let Virtue be as Wax.

And melt in her own fire. Proclaim no shame,

When the compulsive Ardure gives the charge,

Since Frost it self, as actively doth burn,

As Reason panders Will.

Que. O Hamlet, speak no more.

Thou turnst mine Eyes into my very Soul,

And there I see such black and grained spots,

As will not leave their Tinct.

Ham. Nay, but to live

In the rank sweat of an enseamed Bed,

Stew'd in Corruption; honying and making love

Over the nasty Sty.

Que. Oh speak to me, no more,

These words like Daggers enter in mine Ears.

No more, sweet Hamlet.

Ham. A Murderer ,and a Villain:

A Slave, that is not twentieth part, the tythe

Of your precedent lord. A vice of Kings,

A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,

That from a shelf, the precious Diadem stole,

And put it in his pocket.

Que. No more.

Enter Ghost.

Ham. A King of shreds and patches.

Save me: and hover o’re me with your Wings

You Heavenly Guards. What would you gracious figure?

Que. Alas he’s mad.

Ham. Do you not come your tardy Son to chide,

That laps’d in Time and Passion, let’s go by

Th’ important acting of your dread command? Oh say.

Ghost. Do not forget: this Visitation

Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.

But look Amazement on thy Mother sits;

O step between her, and her fighting Soul,

Conceit in weakest bodies, strongest works.

Speak to her, Hamlet.

Ham. How is it with you, Lady?

Que. Alas, how is’t with you?

That thus you bend your Eye on vacancy,

And with the Corporal air do hold discourse.

Forth at your Eyes, your spirits wildly peep,

And as the sleeping Souldiers in th’Alarm,

Your bedded hair, like life in Excrements,

Start up, and stand an end. O gentle Son,

Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper

Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?

Ham. On him, on him, look you how pale he glares,

His form and cause conjoin’d, preaching to stones,

Would make them capable. Do not look upon me,

Left with this pitious action you convert

My stern effects: then what have I to do,

Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood.

Que. To whom do you speak this?

Ham. Do you see nothing there?

Que. Nothing at all, yet all that is I see.

Ham. Nor did you nothing hear?

Que. No, nothing but our selves.

Ham. Why look you there: look how it steals away;

My Father in his habit, as he lived.

Look where he goes even now out at the Portal. [Exit.

Que. This is the very Coinage of your brain,

This bodiless Creation ecstasie is very cunning in.

Ham. Ecstasie?

My Pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,

And makes as healthful Musick. It is not madness

That I have uttered; bring me to the Test

And I the matter will re-word: which madness

Would gamboll from. Mother, for love of Grace,

Lay not a flattering Unction to your Soul,

That not your trespass, but my madness speaks:

It will but skin and film the Ulcerous place,

Whilst rank Corruption running all within,

Infects unseen. Confess your self to Heaven,

Repent whats past, avoid what is to come,

And do not spread the Compost or the Weeds,

To make them rank. Forgive me this my Virtue,

For in the fatness of these pursy times,

Virtue it self, of Vice must pardon beg,

Yea curb, and wooe, for leave to do him good.

Que. Oh, Hamlet,

Thou hast cleft my heart in twain.

Ham. O throw away the worser part of it,

And live the purer with the other half.

Good night, but go not to mine Unkle’s Bed,

Assume a Virtue, if you have it not, refrain to night,

And that shall lend a kind of easiness

To the next abstinence. Once more good night,

And when you are desirous to be blest,

I’ll blessing beg of you. For this same Lord,

I do repent: but Heaven hath pleas’d it so.

To punish me with this, and this with me,

That I must be their Scourge and Minister.

I will bestow him, and will answer well

The death I gave him: so again, good night.

I must be cruel, only to be kind;

Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.

Que. What shall I do?

Ham. Not this by no means that I bid you do:

Let the blunt King tempt you again to Bed,

Pinch Wanton on your cheeck, call you his Mouse,

And let him for a pair of reechy kisses,

Or padling in your neck with his damn’d fingers,

Make you to ravel all this matter out,

That I essentially am not in madness,

But mad in craft. ‘Twere good you let him know,

For who thats but a Queen, fair, sober, wise,

Would from a Paddock, from a Bat, a Gibbe,

Such dear concernings hide? Who would do so?

No, in despight of Sense and Secrecy,

Unpeg the Basket on the Houses top:

Let the Birds fly, and like the famous Ape,

To try Conclusions, in the Basket creep,

And break your own neck down.

Que. Be thou assur’d if words be made of breath,

And breath of life: I have no life to breath

What thou hast said to me.

Ham. I must to England, you know that?

Que. Alack, I had forgot: ‘Tis so concluded on.

Ham. This man shall set me packing:

I’ll lug the Guts into the Neighbour room;

Mother, good night. Indeed this Counsellor

Is now most still, most secret, and most grave,

Who was in life a Foolish prating Knave.

Come, Sir, to draw toward an end with you.

Good night, Mother.

[Exit Hamlet tugging in Polonius

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