Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words,
And fall a cursing, like a very drab,
A scullion!
Fie upon't! foh! About my brains! Humph! I

have heard,
That guilty creatures, sitting at a play,
Have by the very cunning of the scene
Been struck so to the soul, that presently
They have proclaim'd their malefactions:
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players
Play something like the murder of my father,
Before mine uncle: I'll observe his looks;
I'll tent him to the quick; if he do blench,
I know my course.

The spirit, that I have seen, May be a devil: and the devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and, perhaps, Out of my weakness, and my melancholy, (As he is very potent with such spirits,) Abuses me to damn me: I'll have grounds More relative than this: The play's the thing, Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.

[Exit.

Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrants,

and Guildenstern. King. And can you by no drift of conference Get from him, why he puts on this confusion; Grating so harshly all his days of quiet With turbulent and dangerous lunacy?

Ros. He does confess, he feels himself distracted; But from what cause he will by no means speak.

Guil. Nor do we find him forward to be sounded;
But, with a crafty madness, keeps aloof,
When we would bring him on to some confession
Of his true state.

Queen. Did he receive you well?
Ros. Most like a gentleman.
Guil. But with much forcing of his disposition.

Ros. Niggard of question; but, of our demands,
Most free in his reply.
Queen.

Did you assay him To any pastime?

Ros. Madam, it so fell out, that certain players We o'er-raught on the way: of these we told him; And there did seem in him a kind of joy To hear of it: They are about the court; And, as I think, they have already order This night to play before him. Pol.

And he beseech'd me to entreat your majesties,
To hear and see the matter.
King. With all my heart; and it doth much con-

tent me
To hear him so inclin'd.
Good gentlemen, give him a further edge,
And drive his purpose on to these delights.
Ros. We shall, my lord.

[Ereunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. King

Sweet Gertrude, leave us too.
For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither;
That he, as 'twere by accident, may here
Affront Ophelia:
Her father, and myself (lawful espials,)
Will so bestow ourselves, that, seeing, unseen,
We
may

of their encounter frankly judge;
And gather by him, as he is behav’d,
If't be the affliction of his love, or no,
That thus he suffers for.
Queen.

I shall obey you:
And, for your part, Ophelia, I do wish,
That your good beauties be the happy cause
Of Hamlet's wildness; so shall I hope, your virtues
Will bring him to his wonted way again,
To both your honours.
Oph.

Madam, I wish it may.

[Erit Queen. Pol. Ophelia, walk you here:-Gracious, so please

you, We will bestow ourselves :-Read on this book;

[To Ophelia. That show of such an exercise may colour

Your loneliness.-We are oft to blame in this, 'Tis too much provid, -that, with devotion's visage, And pious action, we do sugar

o'er The devil himself. King

0, 'tis too true! how smart A lash that speech doth give my conscience! The harlot's cheek, beauty'd with plast’ring art, Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it, Than is my deed to my most painted word: O heavy burden!

[Aside, Pol. I hear him coming; let's withdraw, my lord.

[Exeunt King and Polonius.

Enter Hamlet.

Ham. To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune; Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by opposing, end them?--To die,—to sleep, — No more;-and, by a sleep, to say we end The heart-ach, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to,-'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die; to sleep;To sleep! perchance to dream;-ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: There's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life: For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The

pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns,-puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprizes of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.-Soft you, now!
The fair Ophelia:-Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
Oph.

Good my lord,
How does your honour for this many a-day?

Ham. I humbly thank you; well.
Oph. My lord, I have remembrances of

yours, That I have longed long to re-deliver; I pray you, now receive them. Ham.

No, not I; I never gave you aught. Oph. My honour'd lord, you know right well,

you did; And, with them, words of so sweet breath com

pos'd As made the things more rich: their perfume lost, Take these again; for to the noble mind,

F