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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 forehead of an innocent love,

       And sets 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: heaven’s face doth glow;

       Yea, this solidity and compound mass,

       With tristful visage, as against the doom,

       Is thought-sick at the act.

       Queen.

       Ah 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 was seated on this brow;

       Hyperion’s curls; the front of Jove himself;

       An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;

       A station like the herald Mercury

       New 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 milldew’d ear

       Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?

       Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,

       And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?

       You cannot call it love; for at your age

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

       And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment

       Would step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have,

       Else could you not have motion: but sure that sense

       Is apoplex’d; for madness would not err;

       Nor sense to ecstacy was ne’er so thrall’d

       But it reserv’d some quantity of choice

       To serve in such a difference. What devil was’t

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

       Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,

       Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,

       Or but a sickly part of one true sense

       Could not so mope.

       O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,

       If thou canst mutine in a matron’s bones,

       To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,

       And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame

       When the compulsive ardour gives the charge,

       Since frost itself as actively doth burn,

       And reason panders will.

       Queen.

       O Hamlet, speak no more:

       Thou turn’st 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, honeying and making love

       Over the nasty sty,—

       Queen.

       O, 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 tithe

       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!

       Queen.

       No more.

       Ham.

       A king of shreds and patches!—

       [Enter Ghost.]

       Save me and hover o’er me with your wings,

       You heavenly guards!—What would your gracious figure?

       Queen.

       Alas, he’s mad!

       Ham.

       Do you not come your tardy son to chide,

       That, laps’d in time and passion, lets go by

       The important acting of your dread command?

       O, 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?

       Queen.

       Alas, how is’t with you,

       That you do bend your eye on vacancy,

       And with the incorporal air do hold discourse?

       Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep;

       And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm,

       Your bedded hairs, 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;

       Lest with this piteous action you convert

       My stern effects: then what I have to do

       Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood.

       Queen.

       To whom do you speak this?

       Ham.

       Do you see nothing there?

       Queen.

       Nothing at all; yet all that is I see.

       Ham.

       Nor did you nothing hear?

       Queen.

       No, nothing but ourselves.

       Ham.

       Why, look you there! look how it steals away!

       My father, in his habit as he liv’d!

       Look, where he goes, even now out at the portal!

       [Exit Ghost.]

      

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