Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Act IV. Scene V. William Shakespeare. 1914. The Oxford Shakespeare

Reference > William Shakespeare > The Oxford Shakespeare > Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

CONTENTS · PLAY CONTENTS · DRAMATIS PERSONÆ · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

William Shakespeare (1564–1616). The Oxford Shakespeare. 1914.

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

Act IV. Scene V.

Elsinore. A Room in the Castle.

Enter QUEEN, HORATIO, and a Gentleman.

Queen. I will not speak with her.

Gent. She is importunate, indeed distract:

Her mood will needs be pitied.

Queen. What would she have?

Gent. She speaks much of her father; says she hears

There’s tricks i’ the world; and hems, and beats her heart;

Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt,

That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing,

Yet the unshaped use of it doth move

The hearers to collection; they aim at it,

And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts;

Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them,

Indeed would make one think there might be thought,

Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.

Hor ’Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strew

Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.

Queen. Let her come in. [Exit Gentleman.

To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is,

Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss:

So full of artless jealousy is guilt,

It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Re-enter Gentleman, with OPHELIA.

Oph. Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?

Queen. How now, Ophelia!

Oph.

	How should I your true love know
	From another one?
	By his cockle hat and staff,
	And his sandal shoon.

Queen. Alas! sweet lady, what imports this song?

Oph. Say you? nay, pray you, mark.

	He is dead and gone, lady,
	He is dead and gone;
	At his head a grass-green turf;
	At his heels a stone.

O, ho!

Queen. Nay, but Ophelia,—

Oph. Pray you, mark.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,—

Enter KING.

Queen. Alas! look here, my lord.

Oph.

	Larded with ’sweet flower;
	Which bewept to the grave did go
	With true-love showers.

King. How do you, pretty lady?

Oph. Well, God ’ild you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Lord! we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table!

King. Conceit upon her father.

Oph. Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this:

	To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day,
	All in the morning betime,
	And I a maid at your window,
	To be your Valentine:
	Then up he rose, and donn’d his clothes,
	And dupp’d the chamber door;
	Let in the maid, that out a maid
	Never departed more.

King. Pretty Ophelia!

Oph. Indeed, la! without an oath, I’ll make an end on ’t:

	By Gis and by Saint Charity,
	Alack, and fie for shame!
	Young men will do ’t, if they come to ’t;
	By Cock they are to blame.
	Quoth she, before you tumbled me,
	You promis’d me to wed:
	So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun,
	An thou hadst not come to my bed.

King. How long hath she been thus?

Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be patient: but I cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him i’ the cold ground. My brother shall know of it: and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good-night, ladies; good-night, sweet ladies; good-night, good-night. [Exit.

King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you. [Exit HORATIO.

O! this is the poison of deep grief; it springs

All from her father’s death. O Gertrude, Gertrude!

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,

But in battalions. First, her father slain;

Next, your son gone; but he most violent author

Of his own just remove: the people muddied,

Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers,

For good Polonius’ death; and we have done but greenly,

In hugger-mugger to inter him: poor Ophelia

Divided from herself and her fair judgment,

Without the which we are pictures, or mere beasts:

Last, and as much containing as all these,

Her brother is in secret come from France,

Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds,

And wants not buzzers to infect his ear

With pestilent speeches of his father’s death;

Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d,

Will nothing stick our person to arraign

In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude! this,

Like to a murdering-piece, in many places

Gives me superfluous death. [A noise within.

Queen. Alack! what noise is this?

Enter a Gentleman.

King. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door.

What is the matter?

Gen. Save yourself, my lord;

The ocean, overpeering of his list,

Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste

Than young Laertes, in a riotous head,

O’erbears your officers. The rabble call him lord;

And, as the world were now but to begin,

Antiquity forgot, custom not known,

The ratifiers and props of every word,

They cry, ‘Choose we; Laertes shall be king!’

Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds,

‘Laertes shall be king, Laertes king!’

Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry!

O! this is counter, you false Danish dogs!

King. The doors are broke. [Noise within.

Enter LAERTES, armed; Danes following.

Laer. Where is the king? Sirs, stand you all without.

Danes. No, let’s come in.

Laer. I pray you, give me leave.

Danes. We will, we will. [They retire without the door.

Laer. I thank you: keep the door. O thou vile king!

Give me my father.

Queen. Calmly, good Laertes.

Laer. That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard,

Cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot

Even here, between the chaste unsmirched brow

Of my true mother.

King. What is the cause, Laertes,

That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?

Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person:

There’s such divinity doth hedge a king,

That treason can but peep to what it would,

100

Acts little of his will. Tell me, Laertes,

Why thou art thus incens’d. Let him go, Gertrude.

Speak, man.

Laer. Where is my father?

King. Dead.

105

Queen. But not by him.

King. Let him demand his fill.

Laer. How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with.

To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil!

Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit!

110

I dare damnation. To this point I stand,

That both the worlds I give to negligence,

Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d

Most throughly for my father.

King. Who shall stay you?

115

Laer. My will, not all the world:

And, for my means, I’ll husband them so well,

They shall go far with little.

King. Good Laertes,

If you desire to know the certainty

120

Of your dear father’s death, is ’t writ in your revenge,

That, swoopstake, you will draw both friend and foe,

Winner and loser?

Laer. None but his enemies.

King. Will you know them then?

125

Laer. To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms;

And like the kind life-rendering pelican,

Repast them with my blood.

King. Why, now you speak

Like a good child and a true gentleman.

130

That I am guiltless of your father’s death,

And am most sensibly in grief for it,

It shall as level to your judgment pierce

As day does to your eye.

Danes. [Within.] Let her come in.

135

Laer. How now! what noise is that?

Re-enter OPHELIA.

O heat, dry up my brains! tears seven times salt,

Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!

By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight,

140

Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May!

Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!

O heavens! is ’t possible a young maid’s wits

Should be as mortal as an old man’s life?

Nature is fine in love, and where ’tis fine

145

It sends some precious instance of itself

After the thing it loves.

Oph.

	They bore him barefac’d on the bier;
	Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny;
	And in his grave rain’d many a tear;—

Fare you well, my dove!

Laer. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge,

150

It could not move thus.

Oph.

	You must sing, a-down a-down,
	And you call him a-down-a.

O how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward that stole his master’s daughter.

Laer. This nothing’s more than matter.

Oph. There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.

155

Laer. A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted.

Oph. There’s fennel for you, and columbines; there’s rue for you; and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O! you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy; I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died. They say he made a good end,—

For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.

Laer. Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,

She turns to favour and to prettiness.

Oph.

	And will he not come again?
	And will he not come again?
	No, no, he is dead;
	Go to thy death-bed,
	He never will come again.
	His beard was as white as snow
	All flaxen was his poll,
	He is gone, he is gone,
	And we cast away moan:
	God ha’ mercy on his soul!