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 doing something amazingly wise, good Reynaldo, if before you visit him you make inquiries about how he's 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, sir, first find out for me what Danes are in Paris; and how, and who, what money they have, and where they lodge, what company they keep, how much they spend; and if, by this roundabout and drifting line of questions, you find that they do know my son, then come closer to the point than your specific questions have been getting. Pretend you have some distant acquaintance with him, like this: "I know his father and his friends, and him a little"—do you follow 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 can say, "not well; though if it's the man I mean, he's very wild; addicted to this and that"—and then pin on him whatever lies you like; but nothing so foul that it would disgrace him; be careful of that. Only, sir, those loose, wild, everyday slips that are well known to go along with youth and freedom.

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 women. You can 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 flavour the accusation carefully. You mustn't load another scandal on him, that he's a habitual whoremonger; that's not what I mean. Speak of his faults so delicately that they seem like the blemishes of freedom; the flare and outburst of a fiery mind, a wildness in blood not yet tamed, the sort that attacks everyone.

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, I'd like to know that.

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's a trick that will hold up. When you lay these small smudges on my son, as though he were something slightly soiled in the making—mind you—the person you're talking with, the one you want to sound out, if he has ever seen the young man you're speaking of guilty of the crimes you've named, be sure he'll fall in with you along these lines: "Good sir," or something like that, or "friend," or "gentleman"—according to the customary phrase and the title used in that man's 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 leave off?

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

At "falls in with you along these lines." At "friend, or something like that," 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 along these lines"—yes, indeed! He falls in with you like this: "I know the gentleman, I saw him yesterday, or the other day, or then, or then, with such and such people; and, as you say, there he was gambling, there he was overcome with drink, there he was in a brawl over tennis." Or maybe, "I saw him go into such a house of business"—that is, a brothel, or the like. Do you see now? Your bait of falsehood catches this carp of truth. That's how we who have wisdom and reach, with roundabout casts and sideways trials, find out straight things by crooked ways. And so, following the lesson and advice I've just given you, you'll find out about my son. You've got me, haven't you?

My lord, I have.

My lord, I have.

God b’ wi’ you, fare you well.

God be with you, farewell.

Good my lord.

Goodbye, my good lord.

Observe his inclination in yourself.

Watch which way he leans, using your own eyes.

I shall, my lord.

I shall, my lord.

And let him ply his music.

And let him keep up his music practice.

Well, my lord.

Very well, my lord.

Farewell.

Farewell.

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 all unfastened, no hat on his head, his stockings dirty, with no garters and hanging down around his ankles like fetters, pale as his shirt, his knees knocking together, and with a look so pitiful in its meaning that he might have been let out of hell to tell of horrors.

Mad for thy love?

Mad for love of you?

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

My lord, I don't know, but honestly I'm afraid it is that.

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 tightly. Then he steps back as far as his arm will reach, and with his other hand held like this above his brow, he starts studying my face as though he meant to draw it. He stayed like that a long time. At last, with a little shake of my arm, and nodding his head up and down three times like this, he let out a sigh so pitiful and deep that it seemed to shatter his whole body and put an end to his life. When that was done, he lets me go, and with his head turned back over his shoulder he seemed to find his way without using his eyes, because he went out the door without their help, and to the very last 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'll go and 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 refused to let him see 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 has made him mad. I'm sorry I didn't observe him with more care and judgement. I was afraid he was only playing with you and meant to ruin you. But curse my suspicion! It seems that it's as natural to people of my age to overshoot in our opinions as it is common for younger people to lack good sense. Come, let's go to the King. This must be made known; if it's kept secret, hiding it might cause more grief than telling of this love would cause anger.