Hamlet

by William Shakespeare

Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust: Thou know’st ’tis common,—all that lives must die, 75 Passing through nature to eternity. HAMLET Ay, madam, it is common. QUEEN If it be, Why seems it so particular with thee?

Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not seems. 80 ’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc’d breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected ’havior of the visage, 85 Together with all forms, moods, shows of grief, That can denote me truly: these, indeed, seem; For they are actions that a man might play; But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

O that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!

My father’s spirit in arms! All is not well; I doubt some foul play: would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.

If with too credent ear you list his songs, Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open 35 To his unmaster’d importunity. Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister; And keep you in the rear of your affection,

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.

This above all,—to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. 85 Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!

The serpent that did sting thy father’s life 45 Now wears his crown.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief:—your noble son is mad:

‘Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; 125 Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.

What do you read, my lord? HAMLET 205 Words, words, words.

T_T

A dream itself is but a shadow.

What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how 310 infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, though by 315 your smiling you seem to say so.

I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.

To be, or not to be,—that is the question:— 65 Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

To die,—to sleep;— To sleep! perchance to dream:—ay, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

Now, mother, what’s the matter? QUEEN 10 Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. HAMLET Mother, you have my father much offended. QUEEN Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue. HAMLET Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.

I must be cruel, only to be kind: Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.—

A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, 30 and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.

HAMLET I see a cherub that sees them.—But, come; for England!— Farewell, dear mother. KING Thy loving father, Hamlet. HAMLET 55 My mother: father and mother is man and wife; man and wife is one flesh; and so, my mother.—Come, for England!

What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.

I do not know Why yet I live to say ‘This thing’s to do;’ Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means To do’t.

Pray tell, Hamlet

Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour’s at the stake.

—O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!

There’s fennel for you, and columbines:—there’s rue for you; and here’s some for me:—we may call it herb 190 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 wither’d all when my father died:—they say he made a good end,— [Sings.] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy,—

LAERTES 195 Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favour and to prettiness. OPHELIA [Sings.] And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead, 200 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, 205 And we cast away moan: God ha’ mercy on his soul! And of all Christian souls, I pray God.—God b’ wi’ ye.

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come 185 Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them. There, on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke; 190 When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide; And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up; Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes; As one incapable of her own distress, 195 Or like a creature native and indu’d Unto that element: but long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death.

HAMLET I lov’d Ophelia; forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum.—What wilt thou do for her?

What I have done That might your nature, honour, and exception Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. Was’t Hamlet wrong’d Laertes? Never Hamlet: If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away, 220 And when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes, Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. Who does it, then? His madness: if’t be so, Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong’d; His madness is poor Hamlet’s enemy.