The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare (moboreader .TXT) 📕

‘HAMLET.’

What should this mean? Are all the rest come back?

Or is it some abuse, and no such thing?

Laer. Know you the hand?

King. ‘Tis Hamlet’s character. ‘Naked!’

And in a postscript here, he says ‘alone.’

Can you advise me?

Laer. I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come!

It warms the very sickness in my heart That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, ‘Thus didest thou.’

King. If it be so, Laertes

(As how should it be so? how otherwise?), Will you be rul’d by me?

Laer. Ay my lord,

So you will not o’errule me to a peace.

King. To thine own peace. If he be now return’d As checking at his voyage, and that he means No more to undertake it, I will work him To exploit now ripe in my device,

Under the which he shall not choose but fall; And for his death no wind

But even his mother shall uncharge the practice And call it accident.

Laer. My lord, I will be rul’d;

The rather, if you could devise it so That I might be the organ.

King. It falls right.

You have been talk’d of since your travel much, And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality Wherein they say you shine, Your sun of parts Did not together pluck such envy from him As did that one; and that, in my regard, Of the unworthiest siege.

Laer. What part is that, my lord?

King. A very riband in the cap of youth-Yet needfull too; for youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it wears Thin settled age his sables and his weeds, Importing health and graveness. Two months since Here was a gentleman of Normandy.

I have seen myself, and serv’d against, the French, And they can well on horseback; but this gallant Had witchcraft in’t. He grew unto his seat, And to such wondrous doing brought his horse As had he been incorps’d and demi-natur’d With the brave beast. So far he topp’d my thought That I, in forgery of shapes and tricks, Come short of what he did.

Laer. A Norman was’t?

King. A Norman.

Laer. Upon my life, Lamound.

King. The very same.

Laer. I know him well. He is the broach indeed And gem of all the nation.

King. He made confession of you;

And gave you such a masterly report

For art and exercise in your defence, And for your rapier most especially,

That he cried out ‘twould be a sight indeed If one could match you. The scrimers of their nation He swore had neither motion, guard, nor eye, If you oppos’d them. Sir, this report of his Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy

That he could nothing do but wish and beg Your sudden coming o’er to play with you.

Now, out of this—

Laer. What out of this, my lord?

King. Laertes, was your father dear to you?

Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart,’

Laer. Why ask you this?

King. Not that I think you did not love your father; But that I know love is begun by time, And that I see, in passages of proof, Time qualifies the spark and fire of it.

There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it; And nothing is at a like goodness still; For goodness, growing to a plurisy,

Dies in his own too-much. That we would do, We should do when we would; for this ‘would’ changes, And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; And then this ‘should’ is like a spendthrift sigh, That hurts by easing. But to the quick o’ th’ ulcer!

Hamlet comes back. What would you undertake To show yourself your father’s son in deed More than in words?

Laer. To cut his throat i’ th’ church!

King. No place indeed should murther sanctuarize; Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes, Will you do this? Keep close within your chamber.

Will return’d shall know you are come home.

We’ll put on those shall praise your excellence And set a double varnish on the fame

The Frenchman gave you; bring you in fine together And wager on your heads. He, being remiss, Most generous, and free from all contriving, Will not peruse the foils; so that with ease, Or with a little shuffling, you may choose A sword unbated, and, in a pass of practice, Requite him for your father.

Laer. I will do’t!

And for that purpose I’ll anoint my sword.

I bought an unction of a mountebank,

So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death This is but scratch’d withal. I’ll touch my point With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly, It may be death.

King. Let’s further think of this,

Weigh what convenience both of time and means May fit us to our shape. If this should fall, And that our drift look through our bad performance.

‘Twere better not assay’d. Therefore this project Should have a back or second, that might hold If this did blast in proof. Soft! let me see.

We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings-I ha’t!

When in your motion you are hot and dry-As make your bouts more violent to that end-And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping, If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck, Our purpose may hold there.- But stay, what noise, Enter Queen.

How now, sweet queen?

Queen. One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, So fast they follow. Your sister’s drown’d, Laertes.

Laer. Drown’d! O, where?

Queen. There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.

There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them.

There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke, When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up; Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes, As one incapable of her own distress, Or like a creature native and indued

Unto that element; but long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death.

Laer. Alas, then she is drown’d?

Queen. Drown’d, drown’d.

Laer. Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears; but yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will. When these are gone, The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord.

I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze But that this folly douts it. Exit.

King. Let’s follow, Gertrude.

How much I had to do to calm his rage I Now fear I this will give it start again; Therefore let’s follow.

Exeunt.

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ACT V. Scene I.

Elsinore. A churchyard.

Enter two Clowns, [with spades and pickaxes].

Clown. Is she to be buried in Christian burial when she wilfully seeks her own salvation?

Other. I tell thee she is; therefore make her grave straight.

The crowner hath sate on her, and finds it Christian burial.

Clown. How can that be, unless she drown’d herself in her own defence?

Other. Why, ‘tis found so.

Clown. It must be se offendendo; it cannot be else. For here lies the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act; and an act hath three branches-it is to act, to do, and to perform; argal, she drown’d herself wittingly.

Other. Nay, but hear you, Goodman Delver!

Clown. Give me leave. Here lies the water; good. Here stands the man; good. If the man go to this water and drown himself, it is, will he nill he, he goes-mark you that. But if the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not himself. Argal, he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.

Other. But is this law?

Clown. Ay, marry, is’t-crowner’s quest law.

Other. Will you ha’ the truth an’t? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o’ Christian burial.

Clown. Why, there thou say’st! And the more pity that great folk should have count’nance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even-Christen. Come, my spade! There is no ancient gentlemen but gard’ners, ditchers, and grave-makers. They hold up Adam’s profession.

Other. Was he a gentleman?

Clown. ‘A was the first that ever bore arms.

Other. Why, he had none.

Clown. What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture?

The Scripture says Adam digg’d. Could he dig without arms? I’ll put another question to thee. If thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself-Other. Go to!

Clown. What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?

Other. The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.

Clown. I like thy wit well, in good faith. The gallows does well.

But how does it well? It does well to those that do ill. Now, thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church. Argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To’t again, come!

Other. Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?

Clown. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.

Other. Marry, now I can tell!

Clown. To’t.

Other. Mass, I cannot tell.

Enter Hamlet and Horatio afar off.

Clown. Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating; and when you are ask’d this question next, say ‘a grave-maker.’ The houses he makes lasts till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan; fetch me a stoup of liquor.

[Exit Second Clown.]

[Clown digs and] sings.

In youth when I did love, did love, Methought it was very sweet;

To contract-O- the time for-a- my behove, O, methought there-a- was nothing-a- meet.

Ham. Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making?

Hor. Custom hath made it in him a Property of easiness.

Ham. ‘Tis e’en so. The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.

Clown. (sings)

But age with his stealing steps

Hath clawed me in his clutch,

And hath shipped me intil the land, As if I had never been such.

[Throws up a skull.]

Ham. That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once. How the knave jowls it to the ground,as if ‘twere Cain’s jawbone, that did the first murther! This might be the pate of a Politician, which this ass now o’erreaches; one that would circumvent God, might it not?

Hor. It might, my lord.

Ham. Or of a courtier, which could say ‘Good morrow, sweet lord!

How dost thou, good lord?’ This might be my Lord Such-a-one, that prais’d my Lord Such-a-one’s horse when he meant to beg it-might it not?

Hor. Ay, my lord.

Ham. Why, e’en so! and