Hamlet Page #4

be the ears of flesh and blood.

List, list, o list!

If thou did'st ever

thy dear father love.

O God!

Revenge his foul

and most unnatural murder.

Murder?

Murder most foul,

as in the best it is,

but this most foul,

strange, unnatural.

Now,

Hamlet, dear.

'Tis given out that

sleeping in my orchard,

a serpent stung me.

So the whole ear of Denmark

is by a forged process

of my death rankly abused.

But know, nobled youth, the serpent

that did sting thy father's life

now wears his crown.

My uncle!

Ay, that incestuous, adulterate

beast with witchcraft of his wit,

with traitorous gifts, wicked

gifts with the power to seduce,

won to his shameful lust

the will of

my most seeming-virtuous queen.

O, Hamlet, what a falling off

was there from me,

whose love was of a dignity that

it went hand in hand with

the vow I made to her in marriage.

And to decline upon a wretch

whose natural gifts were

poor to those of mine.

But soft,

methinks I scent the morning air.

Brief let me be.

Sleeping in my orchard,

my custom of the afternoon,

upon my secure hour thy uncle stole

with juice of cursed hebona

in a vial,

and in the porches of my ears

did pour the leprous distillment

whose effect holds such enmity

with the blood of man

that swift as quicksilver

it courses through the body

and with sudden vigour it curds

like eager droppings into milk,

the thin and wholesome blood.

So did it mine.

Thus was I, sleeping,

by a brother's hand...

unhouseled, disappointed,

no reckoning made,

but sent to my account with

all my imperfections on my head.

O horrible, horrible,

most horrible!

If thou hast nature in thee,

bear it not.

Let not the royal bed of Denmark

be a couch for luxury

and damned incest.

But howsoever thou pursuest

this act, taint not thy mind.

Nor let thy soul contrive

against thy mother.

Leave her to Heaven

and to those thorns

that in her bosom lodge,

to prick and sting her.

Fare thee well at once.

Remember me.

The time is out of joint.

O cursed spite,

that ever I was born

to set it right.

My lord.

What news, my lord?

O day and night,

but this is wondrous strange.

Therefore as a stranger

give him welcome.

There are more things

in heaven and earth, Horatio,

than are dreamt of

in our philosophy.

My fate cries out.

What is it, Ophelia,

he hath sent you?

So please you, something

touching the lord Hamlet.

Marry, well bethought.

What is between you?

Give me up the truth.

He hath, of late, made many

tenders of his affection to me.

Affection!

Think yourself a baby,

that you take these tenders for

true pay, which are not sterling.

Tender yourself more dearly.

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