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whose natural gifts were poor

       To those of mine!

       But virtue, as it never will be mov’d,

       Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven;

       So lust, though to a radiant angel link’d,

       Will sate itself in a celestial bed

       And prey on garbage.

       But soft! methinks I scent the morning air;

       Brief let me be.—Sleeping within my orchard,

       My custom always of the afternoon,

       Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole,

       With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial,

       And in the porches of my ears did pour

       The leperous distilment; whose effect

       Holds such an enmity with blood of man

       That, swift as quicksilver, it courses through

       The natural gates and alleys of the body;

       And with a sudden vigour it doth posset

       And curd, like eager droppings into milk,

       The thin and wholesome blood; so did it mine;

       And a most instant tetter bark’d about,

       Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust

       All my smooth body.

       Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand,

       Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch’d:

       Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,

       Unhous’led, disappointed, unanel’d;

       No reckoning made, but sent to my account

       With all my imperfections on my head:

       O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible!

       If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not;

       Let not the royal bed of Denmark be

       A couch for luxury and damned incest.

       But, howsoever thou pursu’st this act,

       Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive

       Against thy mother aught: leave her to heaven,

       And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,

       To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once!

       The glowworm shows the matin to be near,

       And ‘gins to pale his uneffectual fire:

       Adieu, adieu! Hamlet, remember me.

       [Exit.]

       Ham.

       O all you host of heaven! O earth! what else?

       And shall I couple hell? O, fie!—Hold, my heart;

       And you, my sinews, grow not instant old,

       But bear me stiffly up.—Remember thee!

       Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat

       In this distracted globe. Remember thee!

       Yea, from the table of my memory

       I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records,

       All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,

       That youth and observation copied there;

       And thy commandment all alone shall live

       Within the book and volume of my brain,

       Unmix’d with baser matter: yes, by heaven!—

       O most pernicious woman!

       O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!

       My tables,—meet it is I set it down,

       That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;

       At least, I am sure, it may be so in Denmark:

       [Writing.]

       So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word;

       It is ‘Adieu, adieu! remember me:’

       I have sworn’t.

       Hor.

       [Within.] My lord, my lord,—

       Mar.

       [Within.] Lord Hamlet,—

       Hor.

       [Within.] Heaven secure him!

       Ham.

       So be it!

       Mar.

       [Within.] Illo, ho, ho, my lord!

       Ham.

       Hillo, ho, ho, boy! Come, bird, come.

       [Enter Horatio and Marcellus.]

       Mar.

       How is’t, my noble lord?

       Hor.

       What news, my lord?

       Ham.

       O, wonderful!

       Hor.

       Good my lord, tell it.

       Ham.

       No; you’ll reveal it.

       Hor.

       Not I, my lord, by heaven.

       Mar.

       Nor I, my lord.

       Ham.

       How say you then; would heart of man once think it?—

       But you’ll be secret?

       Hor. and Mar.

       Ay, by heaven, my lord.

       Ham.

       There’s ne’er a villain dwelling in all Denmark

       But he’s an arrant knave.

       Hor.

       There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave

       To tell us this.

       Ham.

       Why, right; you are i’ the right;

       And so, without more circumstance at all,

       I hold it fit that we shake hands and part:

       You, as your business and desires shall point you,—

       For every man hath business and desire,

       Such as it is;—and for my own poor part,

       Look you, I’ll go pray.

       Hor.

       These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.

       Ham.

       I’m sorry they offend you, heartily;

       Yes, faith, heartily.

       Hor.

       There’s no offence, my lord.

       Ham.

       Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio,

       And much offence too. Touching this vision here,—

       It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you:

       For your desire to know what is between us,

       O’ermaster’t as you may. And now, good friends,

       As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers,

       Give me one poor request.

       Hor.

       What is’t, my lord? we will.

       Ham.

       Never make known what you have seen tonight.

       Hor. and Mar.

       My lord, we will not.

       Ham.

       Nay, but swear’t.

       Hor.

      

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