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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.—Pr’ythee say on.—

       He’s for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps:—say on; come

       to Hecuba.

       I Play.

       But who, O who, had seen the mobled queen,—

       Ham.

       ‘The mobled queen’?

       Pol.

       That’s good! ‘Mobled queen’ is good.

       I Play.

       Run barefoot up and down, threatening 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, whether he has not turn’d his colour, and has tears in’s eyes.—Pray you, 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 bestowed? Do you hear? Let them be well used; for they are the abstracts 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. Odd’s bodikin, man, 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 tomorrow.

       [Exeunt Polonius with all the Players but the First.]

       Dost thou hear me, old friend? Can you play ‘The Murder of

       Gonzago’?

       I Play.

       Ay, my lord.

       Ham. We’ll ha’t tomorrow 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?

       I Play.

       Ay, my lord.

       Ham.

       Very well.—Follow that lord; and look you mock him not.

       [Exit First Player.]

       —My good friends [to Ros. and Guild.], I’ll leave you till night: you are welcome to Elsinore.

       Ros.

       Good my lord!

       [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]

       Ham.

       Ay, so, God b’ wi’ ye!

       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 wan’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 i’ the 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 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 the murder 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 the devil: and the devil hath power

       To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps

      

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