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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,
Fie upon't! foh! About my brains! Humph! I have heard,
That guilty creatures, sitting at a play,
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
I'll tent him to the quick; if he do blench,
I know my course. The spirit, that I have seen,
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.
Guil. 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.
Ros. Most like a gentleman.
Guil. But with much forcing of his disposition. Ros. Niggard of question; but, of our demands, Most free in his reply.
Did you assay him
To any pastime?
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.
'Tis most true:
Did he receive you well?
And he beseech'd me to entreat your majesties,
King. With all my heart; and it doth much con
To hear him so inclin'd.
Good gentlemen, give him a further edge,
[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither;
Her father, and myself (lawful espials,)
If't be the affliction of his love, or no,
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.
Madam, I wish it may.
Pol. Ophelia, walk you here:-Gracious, so please
We will bestow ourselves:-Read on this book;
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
The devil himself.
King. O, 'tis too true! how smart A lash that speech doth give my conscience! The harlot's cheek, beauty'd with plast'ring art, Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it, Than is my deed to my most painted word: O heavy burden!
Pol. I hear him coming; let's withdraw, my lord. [Exeunt King and Polonius.
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
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Ham. I humbly thank you; well.
Oph. My lord, I have remembrances of
That I have longed long to re-deliver;
I pray you, now receive them.
I never gave you aught.
No, not I;
Oph. My honour'd lord, you know right well,
And, with them, words of so sweet breath com
As made the things more rich: their perfume lost, Take these again; for to the noble mind,