Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2

Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Moreover that we much did long to see you, The need we have to use you did provoke Our hasty sending. Something have you heard Of Hamlet’s transformation; so I call it, Since nor th’exterior nor the inward man Resembles that it was. What it should be, More than his father’s death, that thus hath put him So much from th’understanding of himself, I cannot dream of. I entreat you both That, being of so young days brought up with him, And since so neighbour’d to his youth and humour, That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court Some little time, so by your companies To draw him on to pleasures and to gather, So much as from occasion you may glean, Whether aught to us unknown afflicts him thus That, open’d, lies within our remedy.

Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Besides the fact that we very much wanted to see you, the need we have to make use of you prompted our sudden summons. You have heard something about Hamlet's change; that is what I call it, since neither the outward nor the inner man is like what he was. What it could be, beyond his father's death, that has so removed him from any understanding of himself, I cannot imagine. I beg you both, since you were brought up with him from such an early age, and have since been so close to his youth and his ways, to agree to stay here in our court a little while, so that by your company you may draw him on to amusements and find out, as much as you can pick up from the chance of it, whether anything unknown to us is troubling him like this, which, once brought into the open, we might be able to cure.

Good gentlemen, he hath much talk’d of you, And sure I am, two men there are not living To whom he more adheres. If it will please you To show us so much gentry and good will As to expend your time with us awhile, For the supply and profit of our hope, Your visitation shall receive such thanks As fits a king’s remembrance.

Good gentlemen, he has spoken of you often, and I am sure there are not two men living to whom he is more attached. If it would please you to show us such courtesy and good will as to spend some of your time with us for a while, to support and further what we hope for, your visit will be thanked as a king's gratitude should thank it.

Both your majesties Might, by the sovereign power you have of us, Put your dread pleasures more into command Than to entreaty.

Both your majesties, by the royal power you have over us, could put your awesome wishes to us as orders rather than as requests.

We both obey, And here give up ourselves, in the full bent, To lay our service freely at your feet To be commanded.

We both obey, and here surrender ourselves completely, to lay our service freely at your feet, to be commanded.

Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.

Thanks, Rosencrantz and kind Guildenstern.

Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz. And I beseech you instantly to visit My too much changed son. Go, some of you, And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is.

Thanks, Guildenstern and kind Rosencrantz. And I beg you to go at once and visit my too much changed son. Some of you, go and take these gentlemen to where Hamlet is.

Heavens make our presence and our practices Pleasant and helpful to him.

May heaven make our being here and what we do pleasant and helpful to him.

Ay, amen.

Yes, amen.

Th’ambassadors from Norway, my good lord, Are joyfully return’d.

The ambassadors from Norway, my good lord, have come back in high spirits.

Thou still hast been the father of good news.

You have always been the father of good news.

Have I, my lord? Assure you, my good liege, I hold my duty, as I hold my soul, Both to my God and to my gracious King: And I do think,—or else this brain of mine Hunts not the trail of policy so sure As it hath us’d to do—that I have found The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy.

Have I, my lord? I assure you, my good king, I hold my duty, as I hold my soul, both to my God and to my gracious King. And I do think—or else this brain of mine no longer follows the scent of state affairs as surely as it used to—that I have found the actual cause of Hamlet's madness.

O speak of that, that do I long to hear.

Oh, tell me about that; I long to hear it.

Give first admittance to th’ambassadors; My news shall be the fruit to that great feast.

Let the ambassadors in first. My news will be the dessert to that great banquet.

Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in.

Do them the honour yourself, and bring them in.

He tells me, my sweet queen, that he hath found The head and source of all your son’s distemper.

He tells me, my sweet queen, that he has found the head and the source of all your son's disorder.

I doubt it is no other but the main, His father’s death and our o’erhasty marriage.

I fear it is nothing other than the obvious one: his father's death and our over-hasty marriage.

Well, we shall sift him.

Well, we shall question him closely.

Welcome, my good friends! Say, Voltemand, what from our brother Norway?

Welcome, my good friends! Tell me, Voltemand, what news from our brother of Norway?

Most fair return of greetings and desires. Upon our first, he sent out to suppress His nephew’s levies, which to him appear’d To be a preparation ’gainst the Polack; But better look’d into, he truly found It was against your Highness; whereat griev’d, That so his sickness, age, and impotence Was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests On Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys, Receives rebuke from Norway; and in fine, Makes vow before his uncle never more To give th’assay of arms against your Majesty. Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, Gives him three thousand crowns in annual fee, And his commission to employ those soldiers So levied as before, against the Polack: With an entreaty, herein further shown, [Gives a paper.] That it might please you to give quiet pass Through your dominions for this enterprise, On such regards of safety and allowance As therein are set down.

The kindest return of your greetings and requests. At our first word, he sent orders to stop his nephew's troop-gathering, which had seemed to him to be preparation against the Polish king; but when he looked into it more closely, he found it really was against your Highness. Grieved that his own illness, age and helplessness had been so deceived, he sent out orders for Fortinbras's arrest; and Fortinbras, in short, obeys, takes a scolding from the King of Norway, and finally swears before his uncle never again to make an attempt in arms against your Majesty. At which old Norway, overcome with joy, gives him three thousand crowns a year and authority to use those soldiers he had raised against the Polish king, along with a request, set out more fully in here, [He hands over a paper.] that you would be so good as to grant safe passage through your territories for this campaign, on such terms of safety and permission as are written down in it.

It likes us well; And at our more consider’d time we’ll read, Answer, and think upon this business. Meantime we thank you for your well-took labour. Go to your rest, at night we’ll feast together:. Most welcome home.

This pleases us. When we have more time for thought we will read it, answer it, and consider this matter. Meanwhile we thank you for your work, well done. Go and rest; tonight we will feast together. Very welcome home.

This business is well ended. My liege and madam, to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time Were nothing but to waste night, day and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief. Your noble son is mad. Mad call I it; for to define true madness, What is’t but to be nothing else but mad? But let that go.

This business has ended well. My king and madam, to argue at length about what majesty should be, what duty is, why day is day, night night, and time is time, would be nothing but wasting night, day and time. So, since brevity is the soul of good sense, and long-windedness its limbs and outward decorations, I will be brief. Your noble son is mad. Mad I call it; for, to define true madness, what is it but to be nothing other than mad? But let that pass.

More matter, with less art.

More substance, and less style.

Madam, I swear I use no art at all. That he is mad, ’tis true: ’tis true ’tis pity; And pity ’tis ’tis true. A foolish figure, But farewell it, for I will use no art. Mad let us grant him then. And now remains That we find out the cause of this effect, Or rather say, the cause of this defect, For this effect defective comes by cause. Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. Perpend, I have a daughter—have whilst she is mine— Who in her duty and obedience, mark, Hath given me this. Now gather, and surmise. [Reads.] To the celestial, and my soul’s idol, the most beautified Ophelia— That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase; ‘beautified’ is a vile phrase: but you shall hear. [Reads.] these; in her excellent white bosom, these, &c.

Madam, I swear I use no style at all. That he is mad is true; it is true it is a pity; and it is a pity it is true. A silly turn of phrase—but goodbye to it, for I will use no style. So let us grant that he is mad. And now what remains is for us to find out the cause of this effect, or rather say, the cause of this defect, for this defective effect has a cause. That is what remains, and the remainder is this. Consider. I have a daughter—have her while she is mine—who, in her duty and obedience, note this, has given me this. Now draw your own conclusions and guess. [He reads.] "To the heavenly one, and the idol of my soul, the most beautified Ophelia—" That is a bad phrase, a disgusting phrase; "beautified" is a disgusting phrase. But listen. [He reads.] "Let these lines be delivered into her excellent white breast," and so on.

Came this from Hamlet to her?

Did this come to her from Hamlet?

Good madam, stay awhile; I will be faithful. [Reads.] Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love. O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers. I have not art to reckon my groans. But that I love thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu. Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him, HAMLET. This in obedience hath my daughter show’d me; And more above, hath his solicitings, As they fell out by time, by means, and place, All given to mine ear.

Good madam, wait a moment; I will read it exactly. [He reads.] "Question whether the stars are fire, question whether the sun moves, question whether truth is a liar, but never question that I love. Oh dear Ophelia, I am bad at this verse. I have no skill to count out my groans. But that I love you best, oh best of all, believe it. Goodbye. Yours for ever, dearest lady, as long as this body belongs to him, HAMLET." My daughter, being obedient, has shown me this; and, what is more, she has told me all about his attempts on her, with the times, the means and the places they happened in.

But how hath she receiv’d his love?

But how has she taken his love?

What do you think of me?

What do you think of me?

As of a man faithful and honourable.

As a loyal and honourable man.

I would fain prove so. But what might you think, When I had seen this hot love on the wing, As I perceiv’d it, I must tell you that, Before my daughter told me, what might you, Or my dear Majesty your queen here, think, If I had play’d the desk or table-book, Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb, Or look’d upon this love with idle sight, What might you think? No, I went round to work, And my young mistress thus I did bespeak: ‘Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star. This must not be.’ And then I precepts gave her, That she should lock herself from his resort, Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. Which done, she took the fruits of my advice, And he, repulsed,—a short tale to make— Fell into a sadness, then into a fast, Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness, Thence to a lightness, and, by this declension, Into the madness wherein now he raves, And all we wail for.

I would like to prove I am. But what would you have thought, when I had seen this passionate love taking flight—as I noticed it, I must tell you, before my daughter told me—what would you, or my dear Majesty your queen here, have thought if I had acted like a writing desk or a notebook and kept it shut away, or let my heart turn a blind eye, silent and dumb, or looked on this love without doing anything about it? What would you have thought? No, I went straight to work, and I said this to my young lady: "Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of your reach. This must not go on." And then I gave her instructions to shut herself away from any place he came to, to admit no messengers, and to accept no presents. Once that was done, she gathered in the harvest of my advice, and he, rejected—to make it short—fell into a depression, then into fasting, then into sleeplessness, then into weakness, then into light-headedness, and by this downward slide into the madness in which he now raves, and which we all grieve over.

Do you think ’tis this?

Do you think this is it?

It may be, very likely.

It may be, very likely.

Hath there been such a time, I’d fain know that, That I have positively said ‘’Tis so,’ When it prov’d otherwise?

Has there ever been a time—I would like to know that—when I said definitely "It is so," and it turned out otherwise?

Not that I know.

Not that I know of.

Take this from this, if this be otherwise. [Points to his head and shoulder.] If circumstances lead me, I will find Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed Within the centre.

Cut this from this, if this is otherwise. [He points to his head and his shoulder.] If the circumstances guide me, I will find where the truth is hidden, even if it were hidden in the centre of the earth.

How may we try it further?

How can we test it further?

You know sometimes he walks four hours together Here in the lobby.

You know he sometimes walks for four hours at a stretch here in the lobby.

So he does indeed.

He does indeed.

At such a time I’ll loose my daughter to him. Be you and I behind an arras then, Mark the encounter. If he love her not, And be not from his reason fall’n thereon, Let me be no assistant for a state, But keep a farm and carters.

At such a time I will set my daughter loose on him. You and I will be behind a wall hanging then, and we will watch the meeting. If he does not love her, and has not lost his reason because of it, then let me be no royal councillor, but keep a farm and cart-drivers.

We will try it.

We will try it.

But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.

But look where the poor creature comes, reading, and gloomy.

Away, I do beseech you, both away I’ll board him presently. O, give me leave.

Go, I beg you, both of you go. I will approach him at once. Oh, leave me to it.

How does my good Lord Hamlet?

How is my good Lord Hamlet?

Well, God-a-mercy.

Well, thank God.

Do you know me, my lord?

Do you know who I am, my lord?

Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.

Perfectly well. You are a fish seller.

Not I, my lord.

No I am not, my lord.

Then I would you were so honest a man.

Then I wish you were as honest a man as one.

Honest, my lord?

Honest, my lord?

Ay sir, to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

Yes sir. To be honest, the way this world is going, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

That’s very true, my lord.

That is very true, my lord.

For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good kissing carrion,— Have you a daughter?

For if the sun breeds maggots in a dead dog, since it is flesh good for the sun to kiss— Have you a daughter?

I have, my lord.

I have, my lord.

Let her not walk i’ th’ sun. Conception is a blessing, but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to’t.

Do not let her walk in the sun. Conceiving is a blessing, but not the way your daughter might conceive. Friend, see to it.

How say you by that? [Aside.] Still harping on my daughter. Yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger. He is far gone, far gone. And truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love; very near this. I’ll speak to him again.—What do you read, my lord?

What do you mean by that? [Aside.] Always going on about my daughter. Yet he did not recognise me at first; he said I was a fish seller. He is far gone, far gone. And truly, in my youth I suffered terrible extremes for love, very nearly like this. I will speak to him again.—What are you reading, my lord?

Words, words, words.

Words, words, words.

What is the matter, my lord?

What is the subject, my lord?

Between who?

The quarrel between whom?

I mean the matter that you read, my lord.

I mean the subject of what you are reading, my lord.

Slanders, sir. For the satirical slave says here that old men have grey beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum; and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams. All which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down. For you yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if like a crab you could go backward.

Slanders, sir. For this satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, that their eyes ooze thick amber and gum from a plum tree, and that they have an abundant lack of intelligence, along with very weak thighs. All of which, sir, though I most powerfully and forcefully believe it, I still do not think it decent to have written down like this. For you yourself, sir, would be as old as I am, if, like a crab, you could go backwards.

[Aside.] Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.— Will you walk out of the air, my lord?

[Aside.] Though this is madness, there is still a method in it.—Will you come in out of the open air, my lord?

Into my grave?

Into my grave?

Indeed, that is out o’ the air. [Aside.] How pregnant sometimes his replies are! A happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him and my daughter. My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you.

True, that is out of the air. [Aside.] How full of meaning his answers sometimes are! It's a luck that madness often hits on, which reason and sanity couldn't bring forth so successfully. I'll leave him and at once arrange a way for him and my daughter to meet. My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you.

You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal, except my life, except my life, except my life.

You cannot, sir, take anything from me that I would more gladly give up — except my life, except my life, except my life.

Fare you well, my lord.

Goodbye, my lord.

These tedious old fools.

These boring old fools.

You go to seek the Lord Hamlet; there he is.

You're looking for Lord Hamlet; there he is.

[To Polonius.] God save you, sir.

[To Polonius.] God keep you, sir.

My honoured lord!

My honoured lord!

My most dear lord!

My most dear lord!

My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz. Good lads, how do ye both?

My excellent good friends! How are you, Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz. Good lads, how are you both?

As the indifferent children of the earth.

Like the ordinary children of the earth.

Happy in that we are not over-happy; On Fortune’s cap we are not the very button.

Happy in that we're not too happy. We're not the very button on Fortune's cap.

Nor the soles of her shoe?

Nor the soles of her shoe?

Neither, my lord.

Neither, my lord.

Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her favours?

Then you live around her waist, or in the middle of her favours?

Faith, her privates we.

Honestly, we're her private parts.

In the secret parts of Fortune? O, most true; she is a strumpet. What’s the news?

In Fortune's secret parts? Oh, very true; she's a whore. What's the news?

None, my lord, but that the world’s grown honest.

None, my lord, except that the world has turned honest.

Then is doomsday near. But your news is not true. Let me question more in particular. What have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of Fortune, that she sends you to prison hither?

Then the end of the world is close. But your news isn't true. Let me ask more particularly: what have you, my good friends, done to deserve from Fortune that she sends you here to prison?

Prison, my lord?

Prison, my lord?

Denmark’s a prison.

Denmark is a prison.

Then is the world one.

Then the world is one too.

A goodly one; in which there are many confines, wards, and dungeons, Denmark being one o’ th’ worst.

A fine one; and it has plenty of cells, confinement wards and dungeons in it, Denmark being one of the worst.

We think not so, my lord.

We don't think so, my lord.

Why, then ’tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison.

Well then, it isn't one to you; for nothing is either good or bad except that thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison.

Why, then your ambition makes it one; ’tis too narrow for your mind.

Well then, your ambition makes it one; it's too cramped for your mind.

O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.

Oh God, I could be shut up in a nutshell and count myself a king of endless space, if it weren't that I have bad dreams.

Which dreams, indeed, are ambition; for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.

And those dreams are in fact ambition; for the whole substance of an ambitious man is nothing but the shadow of a dream.

A dream itself is but a shadow.

A dream itself is only a shadow.

Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow’s shadow.

True, and I consider ambition so airy and light a thing that it is only a shadow's shadow.

Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and outstretch’d heroes the beggars’ shadows. Shall we to th’ court? For, by my fay, I cannot reason.

Then our beggars are the solid bodies, and our kings and far-reaching heroes are the beggars' shadows. Shall we go to the court? Because, by my faith, I can't reason any more.

We’ll wait upon you.

We'll attend on you.

No such matter. I will not sort you with the rest of my servants; for, to speak to you like an honest man, I am most dreadfully attended. But, in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore?

Nothing of the kind. I won't class you with the rest of my servants; for, to speak to you honestly, I am very badly waited on. But, on the ordinary footing of friendship, what are you doing at Elsinore?

To visit you, my lord, no other occasion.

To visit you, my lord, no other reason.

Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you. And sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, deal justly with me. Come, come; nay, speak.

Beggar that I am, I'm poor even in thanks; but I thank you. And surely, dear friends, my thanks are not worth a halfpenny. Weren't you sent for? Is this your own idea? Is it a visit freely made? Come, be fair with me. Come, come; go on, speak.

What should we say, my lord?

What should we say, my lord?

Why, anything. But to the purpose. You were sent for; and there is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties have not craft enough to colour. I know the good King and Queen have sent for you.

Why, anything — but to the point. You were sent for; and there's a kind of confession in your faces, which your modest natures aren't clever enough to disguise. I know the good King and Queen sent for you.

To what end, my lord?

For what purpose, my lord?

That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer could charge you withal, be even and direct with me, whether you were sent for or no.

That's what you must tell me. But let me beg you, by the claims of our friendship, by the harmony of our youth together, by the duty of our always-kept love, and by whatever else more precious a better pleader could urge on you — be straight and direct with me: were you sent for or not?

[To Guildenstern.] What say you?

[To Guildenstern.] What do you say?

[Aside.] Nay, then I have an eye of you. If you love me, hold not off.

[Aside.] All right, then I've got my eye on you. If you love me, don't hold back.

My lord, we were sent for.

My lord, we were sent for.

I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the King and Queen moult no feather. I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man, how noble in reason, how 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 your smiling you seem to say so.

I'll tell you why; that way my guessing will forestall your disclosure, and your promise of secrecy to the King and Queen will lose not a single feather. I have lately — though why, I don't know — lost all my cheerfulness, given up my usual exercise; and truly it weighs so heavily on my mood that this fine structure, the earth, seems to me a barren cliff; this most excellent covering, the air, look you, this splendid overhanging sky, this majestic roof inlaid with golden fire — why, it seems to me nothing but a foul, disease-bearing mass of vapours. What a piece of work a man is: how noble in his reason, how limitless in his powers, in shape and movement how exact and admirable; in action how like an angel, in understanding how like a god: the beauty of the world, the model of all animals. And yet, to me, what is this concentrated dust? Man gives me no delight; no, nor woman either, though by your smiling you seem to be saying that.

My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts.

My lord, there was nothing like that in my mind.

Why did you laugh then, when I said ‘Man delights not me’?

Why did you laugh then, when I said 'Man gives me no delight'?

To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, what Lenten entertainment the players shall receive from you. We coted them on the way, and hither are they coming to offer you service.

I was thinking, my lord, that if men give you no delight, what a meagre welcome the actors will get from you. We passed them on the road, and they're coming here to offer you their services.

He that plays the king shall be welcome,—his Majesty shall have tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use his foil and target; the lover shall not sigh gratis, the humorous man shall end his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickle o’ th’ sere; and the lady shall say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt for’t. What players are they?

The one who plays the king will be welcome — his Majesty shall have my tribute money; the adventurous knight will get to use his sword and shield; the lover will not sigh for nothing; the moody man will finish his part undisturbed; the clown will make those laugh who cough at the least thing; and the lady will speak her mind freely, or the verse will limp for it. What company of actors are they?

Even those you were wont to take such delight in—the tragedians of the city.

The very ones you used to take such delight in — the tragic actors of the city.

How chances it they travel? Their residence, both in reputation and profit, was better both ways.

How does it happen that they're on tour? Staying in the city was better for them both ways, in reputation and in profit.

I think their inhibition comes by the means of the late innovation.

I think they were banned from playing there because of the recent disturbance.

Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? Are they so followed?

Are they held in the same regard as they were when I was in the city? Do they still have such a following?

No, indeed, they are not.

No, truly, they are not.

How comes it? Do they grow rusty?

How does that happen? Are they getting out of practice?

Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace; but there is, sir, an aerie of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of question, and are most tyrannically clapped for’t. These are now the fashion, and so berattle the common stages—so they call them—that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills and dare scarce come thither.

No, their work keeps up its usual standard; but there is, sir, a nestful of children, little unfledged hawks, who shriek their lines out at the top of their voices and get violently applauded for it. They're the fashion now, and they run down the ordinary theatres — as they call them — so much that many men who wear swords are frightened of writers' pens and hardly dare go there.

What, are they children? Who maintains ’em? How are they escoted? Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing? Will they not say afterwards, if they should grow themselves to common players—as it is most like, if their means are no better—their writers do them wrong to make them exclaim against their own succession?

What, are they children? Who supports them? How are they paid? Will they only follow the acting profession as long as their voices last? Won't they say later on, if they grow up to be ordinary actors themselves — which is very likely, if they have no better prospects — that their writers wronged them by making them cry out against the very career they were going to inherit?

Faith, there has been much to do on both sides; and the nation holds it no sin to tarre them to controversy. There was for a while, no money bid for argument unless the poet and the player went to cuffs in the question.

Honestly, there's been a great deal of trouble on both sides; and the nation thinks it no sin to set them on each other like dogs. For a while there was no money offered for a play unless the writer and the actor came to blows in it.

Is’t possible?

Is that possible?

O, there has been much throwing about of brains.

Oh, there's been a lot of brains flung about.

Do the boys carry it away?

Are the boys winning?

Ay, that they do, my lord. Hercules and his load too.

Yes, they are, my lord. Hercules and his load as well.

It is not very strange; for my uncle is King of Denmark, and those that would make mouths at him while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats apiece for his picture in little. ’Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out.

It isn't very strange, because my uncle is King of Denmark, and the same people who would have pulled faces at him while my father was alive now pay twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats each for a little portrait of him. By God's blood, there's something in this beyond nature, if only philosophy could work it out.

There are the players.

There are the actors.

Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come. The appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony. Let me comply with you in this garb, lest my extent to the players, which I tell you must show fairly outward, should more appear like entertainment than yours. You are welcome. But my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.

Gentlemen, welcome to Elsinore. Give me your hands, come on. What belongs to a welcome is good manners and ceremony. Let me be polite to you in this style, in case the warmth I show the actors — which, I tell you, has to look generous on the outside — should seem more like a real welcome than yours does. You are welcome. But my uncle-father and aunt-mother are mistaken.

In what, my dear lord?

In what, my dear lord?

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

I'm only mad when the wind is north-north-west. When the wind is from the south, I can tell a hawk from a heron.

Well be with you, gentlemen.

Good health to you, gentlemen.

Hark you, Guildenstern, and you too, at each ear a hearer. That great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling clouts.

Listen, Guildenstern, and you too — a listener at each of my ears. That great baby you see over there is still not out of his baby clothes.

Happily he’s the second time come to them; for they say an old man is twice a child.

Perhaps he's come back into them a second time, since they say an old man is a child twice over.

I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players. Mark it.—You say right, sir: for a Monday morning ’twas so indeed.

I predict he's coming to tell me about the actors. Watch.—You're quite right, sir: on a Monday morning it was indeed so.

My lord, I have news to tell you.

My lord, I have news to tell you.

My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in Rome—

My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in Rome—

The actors are come hither, my lord.

The actors have arrived here, my lord.

Buzz, buzz.

Old news, old news.

Upon my honour.

On my honour.

Then came each actor on his ass—

"Then came each actor on his donkey—"

The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited. Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light, for the law of writ and the liberty. These are the only men.

The best actors in the world, whether for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comedy, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, plays that keep to one place, or poems that observe no limits. Seneca can't be too solemn for them, nor Plautus too frivolous. For strictly written drama and for the freer kind, these are the only men.

O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou!

Oh Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure you had!

What treasure had he, my lord?

What treasure did he have, my lord?

Why— ’One fair daughter, and no more, The which he loved passing well.’

Why— "One lovely daughter, and no more, Whom he loved extremely well."

[Aside.] Still on my daughter.

[Aside.] Always on about my daughter.

Am I not i’ th’ right, old Jephthah?

Am I not right, old Jephthah?

If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I love passing well.

If you're calling me Jephthah, my lord, then I do have a daughter that I love extremely well.

Nay, that follows not.

No, that's not what comes next.

What follows then, my lord?

What comes next, then, my lord?

Why, As by lot, God wot, and then, you know, It came to pass, as most like it was. The first row of the pious chanson will show you more. For look where my abridgement comes.

Why, "As by lot, God knows," and then, you know, "It came to pass, as it was most likely to." The first stanza of that religious song will tell you more. But look, here comes the thing that cuts me short.

You are welcome, masters, welcome all. I am glad to see thee well. Welcome, good friends. O, my old friend! Thy face is valanc’d since I saw thee last. Com’st thou to beard me in Denmark? What, my young lady and mistress! By’r lady, your ladyship is nearer to heaven than when I saw you last, by the altitude of a chopine. Pray God your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within the ring. Masters, you are all welcome. We’ll e’en to’t like French falconers, fly at anything we see. We’ll have a speech straight. Come, give us a taste of your quality. Come, a passionate speech.

You are welcome, gentlemen, welcome all of you. I'm glad to see you well. Welcome, good friends. Oh, my old friend! Your face has grown a fringe of beard since I last saw you. Have you come to defy me here in Denmark? And what, my young lady and mistress! By Our Lady, your ladyship is nearer to heaven than when I last saw you, by the height of a thick-soled shoe. I pray to God your voice hasn't cracked like a coin broken past the ring that makes it worthless. Gentlemen, you are all welcome. We'll go straight at it like French falconers, and fly at anything we see. We'll have a speech right away. Come on, give us a sample of your skill. Come, a speech full of feeling.

What speech, my lord?

What speech, my lord?

I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was never acted, or if it was, not above once, for the play, I remember, pleased not the million, ’twas caviare to the general. But it was—as I received it, and others, whose judgements in such matters cried in the top of mine—an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning. I remember one said there were no sallets in the lines to make the matter savoury, nor no matter in the phrase that might indite the author of affectation, but called it an honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine. One speech in it, I chiefly loved. ’Twas Aeneas’ tale to Dido, and thereabout of it especially where he speaks of Priam’s slaughter. If it live in your memory, begin at this line, let me see, let me see: The rugged Pyrrhus, like th’ Hyrcanian beast,— It is not so: it begins with Pyrrhus— The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms, Black as his purpose, did the night resemble When he lay couched in the ominous horse, Hath now this dread and black complexion smear’d With heraldry more dismal. Head to foot Now is he total gules, horridly trick’d With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, Bak’d and impasted with the parching streets, That lend a tyrannous and a damned light To their vile murders. Roasted in wrath and fire, And thus o’ersized with coagulate gore, With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus Old grandsire Priam seeks. So, proceed you.

I once heard you speak a speech for me, but it was never performed, or if it was, not more than once, because the play, I remember, didn't please the crowd — it was caviar to the general public. But it was — as I judged it, and as others did too, whose judgement in such matters ranked above mine — an excellent play, well arranged in its scenes, written with as much restraint as skill. I remember someone said there were no spicy bits in the lines to make the material tasty, and nothing in the wording that would convict the author of showing off, but called it a straightforward style, as healthy as it was pleasing, and far more handsome than fancy. One speech in it I loved above all. It was Aeneas' story to Dido, and in particular the part where he speaks of the killing of Priam. If it's still in your memory, start at this line — let me see, let me see: "The rough Pyrrhus, like the tiger of Hyrcania,"— No, that's not it: it begins with Pyrrhus— "The rough Pyrrhus, he whose black armour, black as his intention, was like the night when he lay crouched inside the fateful horse, has now smeared that dreadful black colouring with a more terrible coat of arms. From head to foot he is now entirely red, hideously decorated with the blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, baked and crusted on by the scorching streets that give a cruel and cursed light to their vile murders. Roasted in rage and fire, and plastered over like this with clotted blood, with eyes like burning red jewels, the hellish Pyrrhus hunts for old grandfather Priam." Now, you carry on.

’Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and good discretion.

Before God, my lord, well spoken, with good delivery and good judgement.

Anon he finds him, Striking too short at Greeks. His antique sword, Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls, Repugnant to command. Unequal match’d, Pyrrhus at Priam drives, in rage strikes wide; But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword Th’unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium, Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear. For lo, his sword, Which was declining on the milky head Of reverend Priam, seem’d i’ th’air to stick. So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood, And like a neutral to his will and matter, Did nothing. But as we often see against some storm, A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, The bold winds speechless, and the orb below As hush as death, anon the dreadful thunder Doth rend the region; so after Pyrrhus’ pause, Aroused vengeance sets him new a-work, And never did the Cyclops’ hammers fall On Mars’s armour, forg’d for proof eterne, With less remorse than Pyrrhus’ bleeding sword Now falls on Priam. Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune! All you gods, In general synod, take away her power; Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel, And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven, As low as to the fiends.

"Soon he finds him, swinging his blows short of the Greeks. His ancient sword, disobedient to his arm, lies where it falls, refusing to be commanded. Hopelessly overmatched, Pyrrhus drives at Priam, and in his fury strikes wide; but with the mere rush and wind of his savage sword the feeble old father falls. Then lifeless Ilium, as if it felt the blow, with its top in flames collapses onto its own foundation, and with a horrible crash captures Pyrrhus' ear. For look, his sword, which was coming down on the white head of venerable Priam, seemed to stick fast in the air. So Pyrrhus stood like a tyrant in a painting, and, as though neutral between his will and his purpose, did nothing. But as we often see before a storm, a silence in the sky, the clouds standing still, the bold winds struck dumb, and the earth below as hushed as death, and then the terrible thunder splits the air apart; so after Pyrrhus' pause, awakened vengeance sets him to work again, and the Cyclops' hammers never fell on the armour of Mars, forged to last for ever, with less pity than Pyrrhus' bleeding sword now falls on Priam. Out, out, you whore Fortune! All you gods, in full council, take away her power; break all the spokes and rim-pieces off her wheel, and roll the round hub down the hill of heaven, as far down as the fiends."

This is too long.

This is too long.

It shall to the barber’s, with your beard.—Prithee say on. He’s for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps. Say on; come to Hecuba.

It shall go to the barber's, along with your beard.—Please go on. He wants a comic dance or a dirty story, or else he falls asleep. Go on; get to Hecuba.

But who, O who, had seen the mobled queen,—

"But whoever, oh whoever, had seen the muffled-up queen,"—

‘The mobled queen’?

"The muffled-up queen"?

That’s good! ‘Mobled queen’ is good.

That's good! "Muffled-up queen" is good.

Run barefoot up and down, threat’ning the flames With bisson rheum. A clout upon that head Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe, About her lank and all o’erteemed loins, A blanket, in th’alarm of fear caught up— Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep’d, ’Gainst Fortune’s state would treason have pronounc’d. But if the gods themselves did see her then, When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport In mincing with his sword her husband’s limbs, The instant burst of clamour that she made,— Unless things mortal move them not at all,— Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven, And passion in the gods.

"running barefoot up and down, threatening the flames with blinding tears. A rag on that head where lately the crown stood, and for a robe, wrapped round her thin, worn-out waist that had borne so many children, a blanket, snatched up in the panic of fear— Whoever had seen this, with a tongue dipped in venom, would have declared Fortune's rule to be treason. But if the gods themselves had seen her then, when she saw Pyrrhus making cruel sport of chopping her husband's limbs with his sword, the sudden outburst of screaming that she made — unless mortal things don't move them at all — would have made the burning eyes of heaven weep, and stirred grief in the gods."

Look, where he has not turn’d his colour, and has tears in’s eyes. Pray you, no more.

Look, hasn't he gone pale, and got tears in his eyes. Please, no more.

’Tis well. I’ll have thee speak out the rest of this soon.—Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used; for they are the abstracts and brief chronicles of the time. After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.

That's fine. I'll have you speak the rest of it soon.—My good lord, will you see the actors are properly settled? Do you hear me — see that they're treated well, because they're the summaries and short histories of our age. A bad epitaph after you're dead would do you less harm than their bad word about you while you're alive.

My lord, I will use them according to their desert.

My lord, I'll treat them as they deserve.

God’s bodikin, man, much better. Use every man after his desert, and who should ’scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity. The less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in.

By God's little body, man, much better than that! Treat every man as he deserves, and who would escape a whipping? Treat them according to your own honour and dignity. The less they deserve, the more credit there is in your generosity. Take them in.

Come, sirs.

Come along, gentlemen.

Follow him, friends. We’ll hear a play tomorrow.

Follow him, friends. We'll hear a play tomorrow.

Dost thou hear me, old friend? Can you play The Murder of Gonzago?

Do you hear me, old friend? Can you perform The Murder of Gonzago?

Ay, my lord.

Yes, my lord.

We’ll ha’t tomorrow night. You could for a need study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, which I would set down and insert in’t, could you not?

We'll have it tomorrow night. If it were needed, you could learn a speech of about twelve or sixteen lines that I would write and put into it, couldn't you?

Ay, my lord.

Yes, my lord.

Very well. Follow that lord, and look you mock him not.

Very good. Follow that lord, and be sure you don't make fun of him.

[To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern] My good friends, I’ll leave you till night. You are welcome to Elsinore.

[To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern] My good friends, I'll leave you until tonight. You are welcome to Elsinore.

Good my lord.

Thank you, my lord.

Ay, so, God b’ wi’ ye. Now I am alone. O what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit That from her working all his visage wan’d; Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing! For Hecuba? What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her? What would he do, Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears And cleave the general ear with horrid speech; Make mad the guilty, and appal the free, Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed, The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, And can say nothing. No, not for a king Upon whose property and most dear life A damn’d defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain, breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose, gives me the lie i’ th’ throat As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this? Ha! ’Swounds, I should take it: for it cannot be But I am pigeon-liver’d, and lack gall To make oppression bitter, or ere this I should have fatted all the region kites With this slave’s offal. Bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! Oh vengeance! Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave, That I, the son of a dear father murder’d, 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 brain! 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 but blench, I know my course. The spirit that I have seen May be the devil, and the devil hath power T’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.

Yes, go on, God be with you. Now I am alone. Oh what a scoundrel and low-born slave I am! Isn't it monstrous that this actor here, merely in a made-up story, in a dream of feeling, could drive his soul so completely into his own imagining that, from its working, all the colour drained from his face; tears in his eyes, wildness in his look, a broken voice, and his whole bearing matching his idea in every detail? And all for nothing! For Hecuba? What is Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, that he should weep for her? What would he do if he had the reason and the prompting for passion that I have? He would flood the stage with tears and split the ears of everyone with terrible words; drive the guilty mad and terrify the innocent, bewilder the ignorant, and utterly astound the very powers of eyes and ears. And yet I, a dull, sluggish-spirited wretch, mope about like a man in a daydream, doing nothing for my cause, and can say nothing. No, not for a king whose property and most precious life were destroyed by a damned crime. Am I a coward? Who calls me a villain? Cracks my skull open? Pulls off my beard and blows it in my face? Tweaks my nose, tells me I lie right down in my throat and lungs? Who does this to me? Ha! By God's wounds, I'd take it — because it can only be that I'm as timid as a pigeon and lack the bile to make injury taste bitter, or else by now I would have fattened all the kites of the air with this slave's guts. Bloody, filthy villain! Pitiless, treacherous, lustful, unnatural villain! Oh, revenge! Why, what an ass I am! This is really splendid, that I, the son of a dear murdered father, urged to my revenge by heaven and hell, should, like a whore, unload my heart with words and fall to cursing like a common slut, a kitchen-drudge! Shame on it! Ugh! Get to work, my brain! I have heard that guilty people sitting at a play have, by the sheer skill of the performance, been struck so deep in the soul that at once they confessed their crimes. For murder, though it has no tongue, will speak with some miraculous voice. I'll have these actors perform something like the murder of my father in front of my uncle. I'll watch his face; I'll probe him to the quick. If he so much as flinches, I know what to do. The spirit that I have seen may be the devil, and the devil has power to take on an attractive shape — yes, and perhaps, because of my weakness and my melancholy, since he is very strong with moods like mine, he is deceiving me to damn me. I'll have evidence more solid than this. The play is the thing with which I'll trap the conscience of the King.