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,
So the whole ear of Denmark
is by a forged process
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
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
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
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,
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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"Hamlet" Scripts.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 4 May 2024. <https://www.scripts.com/script/hamlet_9526>.
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