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 i'the

throat,

As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this?
Ha!

Why, 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!

Why, what an ass am I ! 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!

Fye upon't! foh! About my brains! Humph! 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 the murder of my father,
Before mine uncle: I'll observe his looks;
I'll tent him ‡ to the quick; if he do 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,

• Destruction.

+ Unnatural.
§ Shrink or start.

Search his wounds.

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.

ACT III.

SCENE I. A room in the castle.

Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.

King. And 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 ?

Ros. He does confess, he feels himself distracted; But from what cause, he will by no means speak. Guild. Nor do we find him forward to be

sounded;

But, with a crafty madness, keeps aloof,
When we would bring him on to some confession

Of his true state.

Queen.

Did he receive you well?

Ros. Most like a gentleman.

Guild. But with much forcing of his disposition.

Ros. Niggard of question; but, of our demands,

Most free in his reply.

Queen.

To any pastime?...

Did you assay him

Ros. Madam, it so fell out, that certain players We o'er-raught* on the way of these we told him;

And there did seem in him a kind of joy

To hear of it: They are about the court;

And, as I think, they have already order

This night to play before him.

Pol.

'Tis most true :

And he beseech'd me to entreat your majesties,

To hear and see the matter.

King. With all my heart; and it doth much con

tent me

To hear him so inclin'd.

Good gentlemen, give him a further edge,

And drive his purpose on to these delights.

Ros. We shall, my lord.

King.

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Sweet Gertrude, leave us too :

For we have closely 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 behav'd,
If't be the affliction of his love, or no,

That thus he suffers for.

Queen.

I shall obey you :

And, for your part, 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 way again,

To both your honours.

Oph.

Madam, I wish it may.

[Exit Queen.

Pol. Ophelia, walk you here :-Gracious, so

please you,

We will bestow§ ourselves :-Read on this book;

[To Ophelia.

That show of such an exercise may colour Your loneliness. We are oft to blame in this, 'Tis too much prov'd ||,-that, with devotion's

visage,

And pious action, we do sugar o'er

King.
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 !

[Aside.

Pol. I hear him coming; let's withdraw, my lord. [Exeunt King and Polonius.

Enter Hamlet.

Ham. 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-ach, 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 respectt,
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 con-

tumely‡,

The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus§ make
With a bare bodkin ||? who would 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 does 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 pith 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.

Oph.
Good my lord,
How does your honour for this many a day?
Ham. I humbly thank you; well.

Oph. My lord, I have remembrances of yours

That I have longed long to re-deliver;

I pray you, now receive them.

Ham.

I never gave you aught.

No, not I;

Oph. My honour'd lord, you know right well, you

did;

And, with them, words of so sweet breath compos'd
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.

Ham. Ha, ha! are you honest ?

Oph. My lord ?

Ham. Are you fair?

Oph. What means your lordship?
Ham. That if you be honest, and fair, you should

admit no discourse to your beauty.

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

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

Oph. Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so. * Prayers.