The following is an overbringing of the play:
STEAD I. Elsinore. A flat floor before the stonghold.
FRANCISCO at his stead. Ingoes to him BERNARDO
Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself.
Long live the king!
You come most carefully upon your stund.
'Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco.
For this help much thanks: 'tis bitter cold,
And I am sick at heart.
Have you had still watch?
Not a mouse stirring.
Well, good night.
If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus,
The neighbors of my watch, bid them make speed.
I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who's there?
Ingo HORATIO and MARCELLUS
Friends to this ground.
And eldermen to the Dane.
Give you good night.
O, farewell, upright fighter:
Who hath called you back?
Bernardo has my stead.
Give you good night.
What, is Horatio there?
A bit of him.
Welcome, Horatio: welcome, good Marcellus.
What, has this thing came forth again to-night?
I have seen nothing.
Horatio says 'tis but our whimsy,
And will not let belief take hold of him
Knocking this dreaded sight, twice seen of us:
Therefore I have besought him along
With us to watch the short tides of this night;
That if again this sighting come,
He may befind our eyes and speak to it.
Tush, tush, 'twill not show.
Sit down awhile;
And let us once again strike your ears,
That are so strengthened against our tale
What we have two nights seen.
Well, sit we down,
And let us hear Bernardo speak of this.
Last night of all,
When yond same star that's westward from the stake
Had made his way to light that share of heaven
Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself,
The bell then beating one,--
Frith, break thee off; look, where it comes again!
In the same shape, like the king that's dead.
Thou art a loreman; speak to it, Horatio.
Looks it not like the king? mark it, Horatio.
Most like: it harrows me with fear and wonder.
It would be spoke to.
Ask it, Horatio.
What art thou that sought after this time of night,
Together with that fair and warlike shape
In which the greatness of buried Denmark
Did sometimes walk? by heaven I burden thee, speak!
It is harmed.
See, it stalks away!
Stay! speak, speak! I burden thee, speak!
'Tis gone, and will not answer.
How now, Horatio! you shake and look white:
Is not this something more than whimsy?
What think you on't?
Before my God, I might not this believe
Without the feeling and true witness
Of mine own eyes.
Is it not like the king?
As thou art to thyself:
Such was the very weaponwear he had on
When he the yearning Norway fought;
So wried he once, when, in an angry speech,
He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice.
Thus twice before, and leap at this dead stund,
With warlike stalk hath he gone by our watch.
In what share of thought to work I know not;
But in the thick and sight of my doom,
This bodes some outlandish outbreak to our rike.
Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that knows,
Why this same tight and most heeded watch
So nightly works the underthrow of the land,
And why such daily cast of brazen blunderbuss,
And outstead hall for tools of war;
Why such incrowd of shipwrights, whose sore task
Does not sunder the Sunday from the week;
What might be toward, that this sweaty speed
Doth make the night yoke-worker with the day:
Who is't that can tell me?
That can I;
At least, the whisper goes so. Our last king,
Whose likeness even but now came to us,
Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway,
Thereto prick'd on by a most likesome pride,
Dared to the fight; in which our bold Hamlet--
For so this side of our known world beworth’d him--
Did slay this Fortinbras; who by a stamp’d bond,
Well deemed by law and wealth,
Did thole, with his life, all those his lands
Which he took loss for, to the downfaller:
Against the which, a half fiter
Was sworn by our king; which had backwrung
To the bequeathing of Fortinbras,
Had he been overcomer; as, by the same oath,
And farry of the bookstaff marked,
His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras,
Of unbettered ore hot and full,
Hath in the skirts of Norway here and there
Shark'd up a list of lawless backlooseners,
For food and health, to some undertaking
That hath a maw in't; which is no other--
As it doth well show unto our rike--
But to come back of us, by strong hand
And ends binding, those foresaid lands
So by his father lost: and this, I take it,
Is the main drive of our foremakings,
The wellspring of this our watch and the foremost head
Of this fast-speed and search in the land.
I think it be no other but e'en so:
Well may it set that this threatening shape
Comes weaponed through our watch; so like the king
That was and is the asking of these wars.
A mote it is to stir the mind's eye.
In the most high and lofty rike of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,
The graves stood holderless and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman roads:
As stars with draws of fire and dews of blood,
Illstars in the sun; and the wet star
Upon whose inflow Njord's kingdom stands
Was sick almost to doomsday with waning:
And even the like forerun of wild happenings,
As shelters foregoing still the weirds
And forespeech to the foreboding coming on,
Have heaven and earth together shown
Unto our slopes and landmen.--
But soft, behold! lo, where it comes again!
I'll rood it, though it blast me. Stay, mindshade!
If thou hast any din, or brook of steven,
Speak to me:
If there be any good thing to be done,
That may to thee do help and thanks to me,
Speak to me:
If thou art friend to thy land's wierd,
Which, happily, foreknowing may withdraw, O, speak!
Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life
Outwrenched hoard in the womb of earth,
For which, they say, you ghosts oft walk in death,
Speak of it: stay, and speak! Stop it, Marcellus.
Shall I strike at it with my spear?
Do, if it will not stand.
We do it wrong, being so great,
To give it the show of strength;
For it is, as the loft, unwoundsome,
And our worthless blows wicked sneering.
It was about to speak, when the cock crew.
And then it started like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful calling. I have heard,
The cock, that is the horn to the morning,
Doth with his lofty and shrill-dining throat
Awake the god of day; and, at his warning,
Whether in sea or fire, in earth or loft,
The outwandering and forlorn ghost hies
To his narrow: and of the truth herein
This forebeen thing made doom.
It withered on the crowing of the cock.
Some say that ever 'gainst that tide comes
Wherein our Healer’s birth is crowded,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no ghost dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no stars strike,
No elf takes, nor witch hath might to bewitch,
So hallow'd and so friendly is the time.
So have I heard and do in share believe it.
But, look, the morn, in reddish mantle clad,
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill:
Break we our watch up; and by my deeming,
Let us inshare what we have seen to-night
Unto young Hamlet; for, upon my life,
This ghost, dumb to us, will speak to him.
Do you feel that we shall make known him with it,
As needful in our loves, fitting our oath?
Let's do't, I bede; and I this morning know
Where we shall find him most commingly.
Stead II. A room of ethel in the stonghold.
Ingo KING CLAUDIUS, QUEEN GERTRUDE, HAMLET, POLONIUS, LAERTES, VOLTIMAND, CORNELIUS, Lords, and Watchmen
Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death
The awareness be green, and that it us befitted
To bear our hearts in sorrow and our whole kingdom
To be drawn in one brow of woe,
Yet so far hath sifting fought with life
That we with wisest sorrow think on him,
Together with awareness of ourselves.
Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen,
The athely yokelady to this warlike rike,
Have we, as 'twere with a befallen luck,--
With an blessed and a dropping eye,
With mirth in burial and with weeping in wedlock,
In a same meather weighing bliss and soreness,--
Taken to wife: nor have we herein gat'd
Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone
With this business along. For all, our thanks.
Now follows, that you know, young Fortinbras,
Holding a weak guess of our worth,
Or thinking by our late dear brother's death
Our rike to be unyoked and out of frame,
Banded with the dream of his upworth,
He hath not miss'd to scathe us with tidings,
Inbringing the upgive of those lands
Lost by his father, with all bonds of law,
To our most bold brother. So much for him.
Now for ourself and for this time of meeting:
Thus much the business is: we have here writ
To Norway, eme of young Fortinbras,--
Who, weak and bed-rid, hardly hears
Of this his brother’s son's goal,--to put down
His further gait herein; in that the raises,
The lists and full shares, are all made
Out of his doom: and we here send off
You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltimand,
For bearers of this greeting to old Norway;
Giving to you no further selfsame might
To business with the king, more than the sight
Of these deemed staves bestow.
Farewell, and let your speed betrust your right.
In that and all things will we show our right.
We fear it nothing: heartily farewell.
Outgo VOLTIMAND and CORNELIUS
And now, Laertes, what tidings are with you?
You told us of some doom; what is't, Laertes?
You cannot speak of reading to the Dane,
And loose your steven: what wouldst thou beg, Laertes,
That shall not be my bringing, not thy asking?
The head is not more inborn to the heart,
The hand more brookish to the mouth,
Than is the highseat of Denmark to thy father.
What wouldst thou have, Laertes?
My dread lord,
Your leave and deal to come back to Frankland;
From whence though willingly I came to Denmark,
To show my ought in your wreath-gathering,
Yet now, I must betell, that ought done,
My thoughts and wishes bend again toward Frankland
And bow them to your kind leave and forgift.
Have you your father's leave? What says Polonius?
He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave
By wearysome frayness, and at last
Upon his will I wax'd my hard welcome:
I do beseech you, give him leave to go.
Take thy fair stund, Laertes; time be thine,
And thy best thanks spend it at thy will!
But now, my kinsman Hamlet, and my son,--
[Aside] A little more than kin, and less than kind.
How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
Not so, my lord; I am too much i' the sun.
Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted hue off,
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do not for ever with thy lowed lids
Seek for thy high-born father in the dust:
Thou know'st 'tis mean; all that lives must die,
Walking through life to forever.
Ay, milady, it is mean.
If it be, Why seems it so sharesome with thee?
Seems, milady! nay it is; I know not 'seems.'
'Tis not alone my dark cloth, good mother,
Nor tolly clothes of holy black,
Nor windy underbreath of smitten loft,
No, nor the wastumly stream in the eye,
Nor the cast down 'having of the sight,
Together with all shapes, moods, things of sorrow,
That can mark me out truly: these indeed seem,
For they are doings that a man might play:
But I have that within which goeth by show;
These but the cloths and the shirts of woe.
'Tis sweet and loftworthy in your life, Hamlet,
To give these mourning oughts to your father:
But, you must know, your father lost a father;
That father lost, lost his, and the overlifer bound
In sonish answership for some tide
To do befollowly sorrow: but to overtighten
In stubborn sorrow is a way
Of unholy stiffneckness; 'tis unmanly weeping;
It shows a will most unright to heaven,
A heart unstrengthened, a mind unbearing,
An understanding knavish and unlear'd:
For what we know must be and is as mean
As any the most low thing to feel,
Why should we in our silly oversteadness
Take it to heart? Fah! 'tis a flaw to heaven,
A flaw against the dead, a flaw to life,
To bethink most mad: whose mean forthput
Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried,
From the first body till he that died to-day,
'This must be so.' We bede you, throw to earth
This unmighty woe, and think of us
As of a father: for let the world take mark,
You are the most untimely to our highseat;
And with no less highbirthly of love
Than that which dearest father bears his son,
Do I give toward you. For your wish
In going back to learnstead in Wittenberg,
It is most backward to our love:
And we beseech you, bend you to stay
Here, in the mood and feel of our eye,
Our headest yardman, kin, and our son.
Let not thy mother lose her beads, Hamlet:
I bid thee, stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.
I shall in all my best to listen to you, milady.
Why, 'tis a loving and a fair backfold:
Be as ourself in Denmark. Milady, come;
This wellborn and unmighted withgo of Hamlet
Sits smiling to my heart: in thank whereof,
No blissful health that Denmark drinks to-day,
But the great blunderbuss to the clouds shall tell,
And the king's upstir the heavens all tiding again,
Again-speaking earthly thunder. Come away.
Outgoen all but HAMLET
La, that this too too thick flesh would melt Thaw and loosen itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not set His law 'gainst self-slaughter! La God! God! How weary, stale, flat and unyielding, Seem to me all the brooks of this world! Fah on't! Eala! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and whole in life Hold it cleanly. That it should come to this! But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: So outstanding a king; that was, to this, Woden to a elf; so loving to my mother That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her anleth too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I eftmind? why, she would hang on him, As if upping of longing had grown By what it fed on: and yet, within a month-- Let me not think on't--Weakness, thy name is woman!-- A little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she follow'd my arm father's body, Like Frige, all tears:--why she, even she-- La, God! a deer, that wants saying of wit, Would have mourn'd longer--wedded with my eme, My father's brother, but no more like my father Than I to Tiw: within a month: Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flooding in her galled eyes, She wedded. O, most wicked speed, to put With such handiness to kinlyingly sheets! It is not nor it cannot come to good: But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue.
Ingo HORATIO, MARCELLUS, and BERNARDO
Hail to your lordship!
I am glad to see you well: Horatio,--or I do forget myself.
The same, my lord, and your arm swain ever.
Eld, my good friend; I'll wend that name with you: And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio? Marcellus?
My good lord--
I am very glad to see you. Good even, eld. But what, in belief, make you from Wittenberg?
An idle mood, good my lord.
I would not hear your fiend say so, Nor shall you do mine ear that harm, To make it believer of your own reckoning Against yourself: I know you are no wanderer. But what is your business in Elsinore? We'll teach you to drink deep ere you leave.
My lord, I came to see your father's burial.
I pray thee, do not make fun of me, fellow-learner; I think it was to see my mother's wedding.
Indeed, my lord, it follow'd hard upon.
Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the burial baked meats Did coldly fit out forth the wedding boards. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio! My father!--methinks I see my father.
Where, my lord?
In my mind's eye, Horatio.
I saw him once; he was a goodly king.
He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.
My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.
My lord, the king your father.
The king my father!
Ripen your wonder for awhile With an inthink ear, till I may set free, Upon the witness of these goodmen, This wonder to you.
For God's love, let me hear.
Two nights together had these goodmen, Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch, In the dead great and middle of the night, Been thus met up wi’. A shape like your father, Weaponed at prick forcutly, head to toe, Comes before them, and with holy stepping Goes slow and rikely by them: thrice he walk'd By their smother’d and fear-wondered eyes, Within his truck’s length; whilst they, fordropped Almost to frost with the drive of fear, Stand dumb and speak not to him. This to me In dreadful roun gave out they did; And I with them the third night kept the watch; Where, as they had forfre’d, both in time, Shape of the thing, each word made true and good, The ghost comes: I knew your father; These hands are not more like.
But where was this?
My lord, upon the floor where we watch'd.
Did you not speak to it?
My lord, I did; But answer made it none: yet once methought It lifted up its head and did address Itself to wendship, like as it would speak; But even then the morning cock crew loud, And at the shout it shrunk in haste away, And went away from our sight.
'Tis very strange.
As I do live, my mensk'd lord, 'tis true; And we did think it writ down in our ought To let you know of it.
Indeed, indeed, elds, but this stirs me up. Hold you the watch to-night?
We do, my lord.
Weapon’d, say you?
Weapon’d, my lord.
From top to toe?
My lord, from head to foot.
Then saw you not his neb?
O, yes, my lord; he wore his beaver up.
What, look'd he scowlingly?
A bearing more in sorrow than in anger.
White or red?
Nay, sheer white.
And set his eyes upon you?
I would I had been there.
It would have much bewilder you.
Sheer like, sheer like. Stay'd it long?
While one with metefast haste might tell a hundred.
Not when I saw't.
His beard was gray--no?
It was, as I have seen it in his life, A sable silver'd.
I will watch to-night; byhap 'twill walk again.
I forward it will.
If it take up my orefast father's were, I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my frith. I bede you all, If you have hitherto hidden this sight, Let it be holdful in your stillness still; And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, Give it an understanding, but no tongue: I will yield back your loves. So, fare you well: Upon the flatfloor, 'twixt eleven and twelve, I'll come see you.
Our ought to your ore.
Your loves, as mine to you: farewell.
Outgoen all but HAMLET
My father's ghost in weapons! all is not well; I fear some foul play: would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.
STEAD III. A room in Polonius' house.
Ingo LAERTES and OPHELIA
My neednesses are onshipped: farewell: And, sister, as the winds give goodon And fleet is helper, do not sleep, But let me hear from you.
Do you fear that?
For Hamlet and the gaming of his glee, Hold it a shape and a toy in blood, A blossom in the youth of first life, Forward, not holdful, sweet, not lasting, The onsmoke and beseekness of a tide; No more.
No more but so?
Think it no more; For life, waxswell, does not grow alone In thews and bulk, but, as this temple waxes, The inward thralling of the mind and soul Grows wide withal. Maybe he loves you now, And now no bird nor ontake doth befoul The strength of his will: but you must fear, His greatness weigh'd, his will is not his own; For he himself is underthede to his birth: He may not, as unworthy folk do, Carve for himself; for on his choice hangs The wardness and health of this whole rike; And therefore must his choice be rung about Unto the steven and yielding of that body Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you, It fits your wisdom so far to believe it As he in his sharesome doing and stead May give his saying deed; which is no further Than the main steven of Denmark goes withal. Then weigh what loss your ore may hold up, If with too believable ear you list his songs, Or lose your heart, or your clean hoard open To his unlear'd unharborness. Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister, And keep you in the back of your wish, Out of the shot and harm of lust. The moodiest maiden is brookless enough, If she unhide her prettiness to the moon: Strength itself gets out not misleading strokes: The rust galls the cradle-children of the spring, Too oft before their nails be made known, And in the morn and flowle dew of youth feelful blastings are most overhanging. Be wary then; best wardship lies in fear: Youth to itself rises against, though none else near.
I shall the outworking of this good teaching keep, As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother, Do not, as some unthankful shepherds do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whiles, like a puff'd and reckless freeman, Himself the firstrose path of love treads, And recks not his own rede.
O, fear me not. I stay too long: but here my father comes.
A two-fold blessing is a two-fold worth, Happenstead smiles upon a following leave.
Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame! The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, And you are stay'd for. There; my blessing with thee! And these few laws in thy bethought See thou marking. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unlengthed thought his business. Be thou friendly, but in no way mean. Those friends thou hast, and their choosing shown, Grasp them to thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy hand with play Of each new-hatch'd, unfledged fellow. Beware Of ingoing to a harming, but being in, Bear't that the against may beware of thee. Give every man thy ear, but few thy steven; Take each man's doom, but reserve thy deeming. Worthly thy following as thy bag can buy, But not put out in liking; rich, not showy; For the outfit oft tells about the man, And they in Frankrike of the best rank and stow Are of a most chosen and unselfish head in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all: to thine ownself be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell: my blessing yeartime this in thee!
Most lowly do I take my leave, my lord.
The time calls you; go; your waiters hold.
Farewell, Ophelia; and eftmind well What I have said to you.
'Tis in my minding lock'd, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.
What is't, Ophelia, be hath said to you?
So gladden you, something feeling the Lord Hamlet.
Marry, well bethought: 'Tis told me, he hath very oft of late Given one’s own time to you; and you yourself Have of your listeners been most free and good: If it be so, as so 'tis put on me, And that in way of warning, I must tell you, You do not understand yourself so brightly As it behooves my daughter and your worship. What is between you? Give me up the truth.
He hath, my lord, of late made many kindnesses Of his love to me.
Love! La! you speak like a green girl, Unsifted in such fulscathe happening. Do you believe his kindness, as you call it?
I do not know, my lord, what I should think.
Marry, I'll teach you: think yourself a baby; That you have ta'en these kindnesses for true betelling, Which are not sterling. Be kind to yourself more dearly; Or--not to crack the wind of the arm saying, Running it thus--you'll bekind me a madman.
My lord, he hath struck me with love In a oreful way.
Ay, you may call it a way; go to, go to.
And hath given inwit to his speech, my lord, With almost all the holy oaths of heaven.
Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know, When the blood burns, how wayward the soul Lends the tongue to oaths: these blazes, daughter, Giving more light than heat, dead in both, Even in their forspeek, as it is a-making, You must not take for fire. From this time Be somewhat scanter of you being a maiden; Set your words of frith at a higher worth Than a forward to moot. For Lord Hamlet, Believe so much in him, that he is young And with a bigger tether may he walk Than may be given you: in few, Ophelia, Do not believe his oaths; for they are dealers, Not of that dye which their yields show, But only leaders of unholy writs, Breathing like holymade and clean struts, The better to swike. This is for all: I would not, in swotel bounds, from this time forth, Have you so unore any short emptiness, As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet. Look to't, I burden you: come your ways.
I shall give ear, my lord.