core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.—Something too much of this.—
There is a play tonight before the king;
One scene of it comes near the circumstance,
Which I have told thee, of my father’s death:
I pr’ythee, when thou see’st that act a-foot,
Even with the very comment of thy soul
Observe mine uncle: if his occulted guilt
Do not itself unkennel in one speech,
It is a damned ghost that we have seen;
And my imaginations are as foul
As Vulcan’s stithy. Give him heedful note;
For I mine eyes will rivet to his face;
And, after, we will both our judgments join
In censure of his seeming.
Hor.
Well, my lord:
If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing,
And scape detecting, I will pay the theft.
Ham.
They are coming to the play. I must be idle:
Get you a place.
[Danish march. A flourish. Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia,
Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and others.]
King.
How fares our cousin Hamlet?
Ham. Excellent, i’ faith; of the chameleon’s dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed: you cannot feed capons so.
King. I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these words are not mine.
Ham. No, nor mine now. My lord, you play’d once i’ the university, you say? [To Polonius.]
Pol.
That did I, my lord, and was accounted a good actor.
Ham.
What did you enact?
Pol. I did enact Julius Caesar; I was kill’d i’ the Capitol; Brutus killed me.
Ham. It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there.—Be the players ready?
Ros.
Ay, my lord; they stay upon your patience.
Queen.
Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me.
Ham.
No, good mother, here’s metal more attractive.
Pol.
O, ho! do you mark that? [To the King.]
Ham.
Lady, shall I lie in your lap?
[Lying down at Ophelia’s feet.]
Oph.
No, my lord.
Ham.
I mean, my head upon your lap?
Oph.
Ay, my lord.
Ham.
Do you think I meant country matters?
Oph.
I think nothing, my lord.
Ham.
That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs.
Oph.
What is, my lord?
Ham.
Nothing.
Oph.
You are merry, my lord.
Ham.
Who, I?
Oph.
Ay, my lord.
Ham. O, your only jig-maker! What should a man do but be merry? for look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within ‘s two hours.
Oph.
Nay, ‘tis twice two months, my lord.
Ham. So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables. O heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year: but, by’r lady, he must build churches then; or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is ‘For, O, for, O, the hobby-horse is forgot!’
[Trumpets sound. The dumb show enters.]
[Enter a King and a Queen very lovingly; the Queen embracing him and he her. She kneels, and makes show of protestation unto him. He takes her up, and declines his head upon her neck: lays him down upon a bank of flowers: she, seeing him asleep, leaves him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes off his crown, kisses it, pours poison in the king’s ears, and exit. The Queen returns, finds the King dead, and makes passionate action. The Poisoner with some three or four Mutes, comes in again, seeming to lament with her. The dead body is carried away. The Poisoner wooes the Queen with gifts; she seems loth and unwilling awhile, but in the end accepts his love.]
[Exeunt.]
Oph.
What means this, my lord?
Ham.
Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief.
Oph.
Belike this show imports the argument of the play.
[Enter Prologue.]
Ham. We shall know by this fellow: the players cannot keep counsel; they’ll tell all.
Oph.
Will he tell us what this show meant?
Ham. Ay, or any show that you’ll show him: be not you ashamed to show, he’ll not shame to tell you what it means.
Oph.
You are naught, you are naught: I’ll mark the play.
Pro.
For us, and for our tragedy,
Here stooping to your clemency,
We beg your hearing patiently.
Ham.
Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?
Oph.
‘Tis brief, my lord.
Ham.
As woman’s love.
[Enter a King and a Queen.]
P. King.
Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart gone round
Neptune’s salt wash and Tellus’ orbed ground,
And thirty dozen moons with borrow’d sheen
About the world have times twelve thirties been,
Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands,
Unite commutual in most sacred bands.
P. Queen.
So many journeys may the sun and moon
Make us again count o’er ere love be done!
But, woe is me, you are so sick of late,
So far from cheer and from your former state.
That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust,
Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must:
For women’s fear and love holds quantity;
In neither aught, or in extremity.
Now, what my love is, proof hath made you know;
And as my love is siz’d, my fear is so:
Where love is great, the littlest doubts