Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 1

Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.

Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.

I will, my lord.

I will, my lord.

You shall do marvellous wisely, good Reynaldo, Before you visit him, to make inquiry Of his behaviour.

You will be acting remarkably wisely, good Reynaldo, if before you visit him you make inquiries about how he has been behaving.

My lord, I did intend it.

My lord, I meant to do that.

Marry, well said; very well said. Look you, sir, Enquire me first what Danskers are in Paris; And how, and who, what means, and where they keep, What company, at what expense; and finding By this encompassment and drift of question, That they do know my son, come you more nearer Than your particular demands will touch it. Take you as ’twere some distant knowledge of him, As thus, ‘I know his father and his friends, And in part him’—do you mark this, Reynaldo?

Indeed, well said; very well said. Look here, sir: find out for me first what Danes are in Paris; and how they live, and who they are, what their income is, and where they lodge, what company they keep, and how much they spend; and when, by this roundabout, drifting way of questioning, you discover that they know my son, then come closer to the point than your specific questions would get you. Pretend you have some distant acquaintance with him, like this: "I know his father and his friends, and him a little"—are you following this, Reynaldo?

Ay, very well, my lord.

Yes, very well, my lord.

‘And in part him, but,’ you may say, ‘not well; But if’t be he I mean, he’s very wild; Addicted so and so;’ and there put on him What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank As may dishonour him; take heed of that; But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips As are companions noted and most known To youth and liberty.

"And him a little, but," you may say, "not well; but if it's the man I mean, he's very wild, given to this and that"—and then pin on him whatever lies you like; but nothing so foul that it would disgrace him—be careful about that—but, sir, the kind of loose, wild, everyday slips that everyone knows go along with being young and free.

As gaming, my lord?

Such as gambling, my lord?

Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, Quarrelling, drabbing. You may go so far.

Yes, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrelling, going with prostitutes. You may go that far.

My lord, that would dishonour him.

My lord, that would disgrace him.

Faith no, as you may season it in the charge. You must not put another scandal on him, That he is open to incontinency; That’s not my meaning: but breathe his faults so quaintly That they may seem the taints of liberty; The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind, A savageness in unreclaimed blood, Of general assault.

Honestly, no—not if you soften it in the way you make the accusation. You must not lay another scandal on him, that he is given to habitual loose living; that's not what I mean. But describe his faults so delicately that they seem the blemishes of freedom, the flare and outburst of a fiery mind, a wildness in untamed blood, the sort that attacks all young men.

But my good lord—

But, my good lord—

Wherefore should you do this?

Why should you do this?

Ay, my lord, I would know that.

Yes, my lord, that's what I'd like to know.

Marry, sir, here’s my drift, And I believe it is a fetch of warrant. You laying these slight sullies on my son, As ’twere a thing a little soil’d i’ th’ working, Mark you, Your party in converse, him you would sound, Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes The youth you breathe of guilty, be assur’d He closes with you in this consequence; ‘Good sir,’ or so; or ‘friend,’ or ‘gentleman’— According to the phrase or the addition Of man and country.

Well, sir, here's my aim, and I believe it is a trick that works. When you lay these small stains on my son, as though he were something slightly soiled in the making, listen: the person you're talking with, the one you want to sound out, if he has ever seen the young man you're describing guilty of the faults you named, be sure he will fall in with you like this: "Good sir," or something like it, or "friend," or "gentleman"—whatever the usual form of address is for a man of that sort and country.

Very good, my lord.

Very good, my lord.

And then, sir, does he this,— He does—What was I about to say? By the mass, I was about to say something. Where did I leave?

And then, sir, he does this—he does—What was I about to say? By the mass, I was about to say something. Where did I stop?

At ‘closes in the consequence.’ At ‘friend or so,’ and ‘gentleman.’

At "falls in with you like this." At "friend or something," and "gentleman."

At ‘closes in the consequence’ ay, marry! He closes with you thus: ‘I know the gentleman, I saw him yesterday, or t’other day, Or then, or then, with such and such; and, as you say, There was he gaming, there o’ertook in’s rouse, There falling out at tennis’: or perchance, ‘I saw him enter such a house of sale’— Videlicet, a brothel, or so forth. See you now; Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth; And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, With windlasses, and with assays of bias, By indirections find directions out. So by my former lecture and advice Shall you my son. You have me, have you not?

At "falls in with you like this"—yes, that's it! He falls in with you like this: "I know the gentleman. I saw him yesterday, or the other day, or then, or then, with this man and that; and, as you say, there he was gambling, there he was overcome with drink, there he was fighting at tennis"—or possibly, "I saw him go into such and such a house of trade," that is, a brothel, or something like that. Now do you see? Your bait of lies catches this fish of truth. That's how we who have wisdom and reach, by roundabout casts and sidelong attempts, find out what we want by indirect means. And that's how, following the lesson and advice I've just given you, you'll learn about my son. You've got me, haven't you?

My lord, I have.

I have, my lord.

God b’ wi’ you, fare you well.

God be with you, goodbye.

Good my lord.

Goodbye, my good lord.

Observe his inclination in yourself.

Observe what he's inclined to yourself.

I shall, my lord.

I shall, my lord.

And let him ply his music.

And let him keep up his music.

Well, my lord.

Very well, my lord.

Farewell.

Goodbye.

How now, Ophelia, what’s the matter?

Well now, Ophelia, what's the matter?

Alas, my lord, I have been so affrighted.

Oh, my lord, I have been so frightened.

With what, in the name of God?

By what, in God's name?

My lord, as I was sewing in my chamber, Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac’d, No hat upon his head, his stockings foul’d, Ungart’red, and down-gyved to his ankle, Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, And with a look so piteous in purport As if he had been loosed out of hell To speak of horrors, he comes before me.

My lord, as I was sewing in my room, Lord Hamlet came in front of me, his jacket completely unfastened, no hat on his head, his stockings dirty, with no garters, and hanging down around his ankles like shackles, pale as his shirt, his knees knocking together, and with a look so pitiful in what it meant, as if he had been let out of hell to tell of horrors.

Mad for thy love?

Mad with love for you?

My lord, I do not know, but truly I do fear it.

My lord, I don't know, but truly I am afraid that is it.

What said he?

What did he say?

He took me by the wrist and held me hard; Then goes he to the length of all his arm; And with his other hand thus o’er his brow, He falls to such perusal of my face As he would draw it. Long stay’d he so, At last,—a little shaking of mine arm, And thrice his head thus waving up and down, He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound As it did seem to shatter all his bulk And end his being. That done, he lets me go, And with his head over his shoulder turn’d He seem’d to find his way without his eyes, For out o’ doors he went without their help, And to the last bended their light on me.

He took me by the wrist and held me tight; then he steps back the full length of his arm, and with his other hand held like this above his eyes, he begins studying my face as though he meant to draw it. He stayed like that a long while. At last, giving my arm a little shake, and nodding his head up and down three times like this, he let out a sigh so pitiful and deep that it seemed to shake his whole body apart and put an end to his life. Then he let me go, and with his head turned back over his shoulder he seemed to find his way without using his eyes, for he went out of the door without their help, and to the very last he kept their light fixed on me.

Come, go with me. I will go seek the King. This is the very ecstasy of love, Whose violent property fordoes itself, And leads the will to desperate undertakings, As oft as any passion under heaven That does afflict our natures. I am sorry,— What, have you given him any hard words of late?

Come, come with me. I will go find the King. This is the very madness of love, whose violent nature destroys itself and drives the will to desperate acts, as often as any passion under heaven that troubles our natures. I'm sorry— Tell me, have you said anything harsh to him lately?

No, my good lord; but as you did command, I did repel his letters and denied His access to me.

No, my good lord; but as you ordered, I refused his letters and would not let him come near me.

That hath made him mad. I am sorry that with better heed and judgement I had not quoted him. I fear’d he did but trifle, And meant to wreck thee. But beshrew my jealousy! It seems it is as proper to our age To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions As it is common for the younger sort To lack discretion. Come, go we to the King. This must be known, which, being kept close, might move More grief to hide than hate to utter love.

That is what has made him mad. I'm sorry I didn't watch him more carefully and judge him better. I feared he was only playing with you and meant to ruin you. Curse my suspicion! It seems it's as natural to us old people to overshoot the mark in our opinions as it is common for the young to have no self-control. Come, let's go to the King. This must be told; keeping it secret might cause more grief than telling this love will cause anger.