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 greatly wanted to see you, the need we have to make use of you prompted our hurried summons. You have heard something of Hamlet's transformation — that is what I call it, since neither the outer nor the inner man is like what it was. What it could be, beyond his father's death, that has driven him so far out of 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 moods — that you agree to stay here in our court a little while, so that by your company you may draw him on to pleasures, and gather, as much as you can pick up from chance opportunity, whether there is something unknown to us troubling him like this, which, once uncovered, lies within our power 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 you would be so kind as to show us such courtesy and good will as to spend your time with us for a while, to support and further what we hope for, your visit shall have such thanks as suit a king's gratitude.

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 might, by the royal power you have over us, put your awesome wishes to us as commands 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.

Thank you, 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.

Thank you, Guildenstern and kind Rosencrantz. And I beg you to visit my too greatly changed son at once. Go, some of you, and take these gentlemen to where Hamlet is.

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

May Heaven make our presence and our efforts 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 happily.

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 sovereign, I hold on to my duty, as I hold on to my soul, both to my God and to my gracious King. And I do think — unless this brain of mine no longer follows the scent of statecraft as surely as it used to — that I have found the very cause of Hamlet's madness.

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

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

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

Let the ambassadors in first. My news shall be the dessert to that great feast.

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 suspect it is nothing but the main thing: 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 greetings and good wishes. At our first request, he sent orders to stop his nephew's recruiting, which had seemed to him to be preparation against the Polack; but looking into it more closely, he truly found it was against your Highness. Grieved that his own sickness, age and weakness had been so falsely taken advantage of, he sent out orders for Fortinbras's arrest; which Fortinbras, in short, obeys, takes his rebuke from Norway, and in the end swears before his uncle never again to make an attempt of arms against your Majesty. At which old Norway, overcome with joy, gives him three thousand crowns a year as an allowance, and authority to use those soldiers he had raised, as before, against the Polack — along with a request, set out more fully here, [He gives him a paper.] that you would be pleased to grant peaceful passage through your territories for this campaign, on the conditions of safety and permission that are written down there.

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.

It pleases us well; and at a time when we can give it more thought, we will read it, answer it, and consider this business. Meanwhile we thank you for your well-performed work. Go and rest; tonight we will feast together. Most 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 sovereign and madam, to argue out what majesty ought to be, what duty is, why day is day, night night, and time is time, would be nothing but wasting night, day and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wisdom, and long-windedness its limbs and outward decoration, 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, with less artifice.

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 artifice at all. That he is mad is true; it is true it is a pity; and it is a pity it is true. A foolish turn of phrase — but goodbye to it, for I will use no artifice. Let us grant, then, that he is mad. And now what remains is that we find out the cause of this effect, or rather say, the cause of this defect, for this defective effect comes from a cause. So 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, has given me this. Now draw your 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 vile phrase; 'beautified' is a vile phrase; but you shall hear. [He reads.] 'these lines; in her excellent white bosom, these lines,' and so on.

Came this from Hamlet to her?

Did this come from Hamlet to her?

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.] 'Doubt that the stars are fire, doubt that the sun moves, doubt that truth is a liar, but never doubt that I love. Oh dear Ophelia, I am bad at these verses. I have no skill to count up my groans. But that I love you best, oh most best, believe it. Goodbye. Yours forever, most dear lady, as long as this body belongs to him, HAMLET.' My daughter, out of obedience, has shown me this; and what is more, she has told my ear all of his advances, as they happened in time, by means, and in place.

But how hath she receiv’d his love?

But how has she received his love?

What do you think of me?

What do you think of me?

As of a man faithful and honourable.

As a faithful 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 gladly prove to be so. But what would you have thought, when I had seen this hot 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, or had let my heart look the other way, silent and dumb, or had watched this love with unconcerned eyes? What would you have thought? No, I got straight to work, and I spoke to my young lady like this: 'Lord Hamlet is a prince, outside your sphere. This must not happen.' And then I gave her instructions that she should shut herself away from his visits, admit no messengers, accept no gifts. When that was done, she took the benefit of my advice, and he, rejected — to make the story short — fell into a sadness, then into a fast, from there into sleeplessness, from there into weakness, from there into light-headedness, and, by this downward slide, into the madness he now raves in, and that we all mourn for.

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 gladly know that — when I have 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.

Take this off 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 at 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 let my daughter loose to 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 over it, let me not be an adviser to a state, but keep a farm and carters.

We will try it.

We will try it.

But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.

But look where the poor wretch comes, reading sadly.

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

Away, I beg you, both of you away. I will approach him right now. Oh, allow me.

How does my good Lord Hamlet?

How is my good Lord Hamlet?

Well, God-a-mercy.

Well, God have mercy on you.

Do you know me, my lord?

Do you know me, my lord?

Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.

Extremely well. You are a fish-seller.

Not I, my lord.

Not I, 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 goes, 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 kissing— Do you have a daughter?

I have, my lord.

I do, 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 say to that? [Aside.] Still 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 great 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 matter, my lord?

Between who?

Between who?

I mean the matter that you read, my lord.

I mean the subject matter that 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 the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards; that their faces are wrinkled; that their eyes ooze thick amber and plum-tree gum; 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, still I do not think it is decent to have it 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 may be madness, there is still a method in it. — Will you come 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.

Indeed, that is out of the air. [Aside.] How full of meaning his replies sometimes are! A lucky knack that madness often hits on, which reason and sanity could not bring forth so successfully. I will leave him and immediately 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 part with more willingly—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 are looking for Lord Hamlet; there he is.

[To Polonius.] God save you, sir.

[To Polonius.] God bless you, sir.

My honoured lord!

My honoured lord!

My most dear lord!

My dearest 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 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 are not too happy; we are 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 are her private soldiers.

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

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

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

None, my lord, except that the world has grown 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 doomsday must be near. But your news is not true. Let me ask more specifically. 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 many cells, confinements, and dungeons, 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 for 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 infinite 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 very 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 weightless 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 monarchs and towering heroes are the beggars' shadows. Shall we go to the court? Because, by my faith, I cannot reason.

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 as an honest man, I am waited on dreadfully. But, on the well-trodden path 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 am poor even in thanks; but I thank you. And surely, dear friends, my thanks aren't worth a halfpenny. Weren't you sent for? Is this your own wish? Is it a freely chosen visit? 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 is a kind of confession in your faces, which your modest natures aren't clever enough to disguise. I know the good King and Queen have 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 teach me. But let me beg you, by the rights of our friendship, by the harmony of our youth, by the duty of our always-preserved 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.] So 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 save you from having to reveal it, and your promise of secrecy to the King and Queen won't lose a single feather. I have lately—though why, I don't know—lost all my cheerfulness, given up all my usual exercises; and indeed things weigh so heavily on my spirits that this fine structure, the earth, seems to me a barren headland; this most excellent covering, the air—look you—this splendid overhanging sky, this magnificent roof studded with golden fire, why, it seems to me nothing but a foul and diseased gathering of vapours. What a piece of work a man is: how noble in reason, how infinite in his abilities, 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 essence of dust? Man gives me no delight; no, nor woman either, though from your smiling you seem to be saying so.

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

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

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

Then why did you laugh 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 you take no delight in man, what a meagre welcome the players will get from you. We passed them on the road, and they are 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; the adventurous knight shall use his sword and shield; the lover shall not sigh for nothing; the moody man shall finish his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are ready to go off at a touch; and the lady shall speak her mind freely, or the blank verse will limp for it. What players are they?

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

The very ones you used to enjoy so much—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 travelling? Staying in one place 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 barred from playing 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 when I was in the city? Do they still draw such crowds?

No, indeed, they are not.

No, indeed, they are not.

How comes it? Do they grow rusty?

How does that come about? Are they getting rusty?

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 effort keeps up its usual standard; but there is, sir, a nest of children, little unfledged hawks, who shout out their lines at the top of their voices and get outrageously applauded for it. These are the fashion now, and they attack the ordinary theatres—as they call them—so loudly that many men who wear swords are afraid of writers' goose-quills 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 keep at the acting profession only as long as their voices last? Won't they say afterwards, if they grow up to be ordinary players themselves—as is most likely, if they have no better means—that their writers wronged them by making them cry out against the very career they would 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 has been a great deal of trouble on both sides; and the country thinks it no sin to egg them on into quarrelling. For a while no money was offered for a play's plot unless the writer and the actor came to blows over the dispute.

Is’t possible?

Is that possible?

O, there has been much throwing about of brains.

Oh, there has been a great deal of brain-throwing.

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 is not so strange; for my uncle is King of Denmark, and the men who would have pulled faces at him while my father was alive now give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats each for a miniature portrait of him. By God's blood, there is something in this beyond nature, if philosophy could work it out.

There are the players.

There are the players.

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. What belongs to a welcome is fashion and ceremony. Let me observe the form with you, in case my warmth to the players — which I tell you must look generous on the outside — should seem more like a real welcome than yours. 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 am only mad north-north-west. When the wind is from the south, I can tell a hawk from a handsaw.

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 ear. That great baby you see there is not yet 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 has come into them a second time; for 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 is coming to tell me about the players. Watch. — You are quite right, sir: it was indeed on a Monday morning.

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 each actor came riding 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-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, plays that keep the unities, or poems that ignore all limits. Seneca cannot be too heavy for them, nor Plautus too light, for plays written by the rules and plays that take liberties. These are the only men.

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

O 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 exceedingly well.'

[Aside.] Still on my daughter.

[Aside.] Still going 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 call me Jephthah, my lord, I do have a daughter that I love exceedingly well.

Nay, that follows not.

No, that is 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 the holy song will show you more. For look, here comes my interruption.

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, masters, all of you welcome. I am glad to see you well. Welcome, good friends. Oh, my old friend! Your face has grown a fringe of beard since I saw you last. Have you come to challenge me to my face in Denmark? What, my young lady and mistress! By Our Lady, your ladyship is closer to heaven than when I last saw you, by the height of a thick-soled shoe. Pray God your voice has not cracked inside the ring, like a gold coin no longer good as currency. Masters, you are all welcome. We will go straight at it like French falconers, and fly at anything we see. We will have a speech at once. Come, give us a sample of your skill. Come, a passionate speech.

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, no more than once, for the play, as I remember, did not please the crowd; it was caviar to the general public. But it was — in my judgement, and in the judgement of others whose opinion in such matters outranked 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, nor anything in the phrasing that could convict the author of affectation, but he called it an honest style, as healthy as it was pleasant, and far more handsome than showy. One speech in it I loved above all. It was Aeneas' tale to Dido, and in particular the part where he speaks of Priam's killing. If it is still in your memory, begin at this line — let me see, let me see: 'The rugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast,' — no, that is not it: it begins with Pyrrhus — 'The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose black armour, black as his intent, was like the night when he lay hidden in the fatal wooden horse, has now smeared that dreadful black colouring with a more terrible coat of arms. From head to foot he is now all red, hideously marked out with the blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, baked and crusted on him by the burning streets, which give a cruel and damnable light to their vile murders. Roasted in rage and fire, and so coated over with clotted blood, with eyes like red jewels, the hellish Pyrrhus hunts for old grandfather Priam.' Now, you go on.

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

Before God, my lord, well spoken, with good pronunciation 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, striking his blows short of the Greeks. His ancient sword, disobedient to his arm, lies where it falls, refusing to be commanded. Unfairly matched, Pyrrhus drives at Priam, and in his fury strikes wide; but at the mere rush and wind of his savage sword the weakened father falls. Then Ilium itself, lifeless as it is, seems to feel the blow, and with its top on fire it sinks down to its foundations, and with a horrible crash it takes Pyrrhus' ear prisoner. 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 if indifferent to both 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 without a voice, and the earth below as hushed as death, and then all at once the terrible thunder tears the air apart; so after Pyrrhus' pause, awakened vengeance sets him to work again, and the Cyclops' hammers never fell on Mars's armour, forged to last forever, with less pity than Pyrrhus' bleeding sword now falls on Priam. Away, away, you whore Fortune! All you gods, in full assembly, take away her power; break all the spokes and rims from her wheel, and roll the round hub down the hill of heaven, as far down as to 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 dance-song or a dirty story, or else he falls asleep. Go on; get to Hecuba.

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

But who — oh, who — had seen the muffled queen—

‘The mobled queen’?

'The muffled queen'?

That’s good! ‘Mobled queen’ is good.

That is good! 'Muffled 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 sat, and for a robe, wrapped around her thin, worn-out body from childbearing, a blanket snatched up in the panic of fear — anyone who had seen this would, with a tongue dipped in poison, have declared treason against Fortune's rule. 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 burst of screaming she let out — unless mortal things do not move them at all — would have made the burning eyes of heaven run with tears, and stirred passion in the gods.

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

Look, see how he has changed colour and has 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 is fine. I will have you speak the rest of this soon. — My good lord, will you see that the players are properly housed? Do you hear me — let them be well treated; for they are the summaries and short chronicles of the age. After your death you would rather have a bad epitaph than a bad report from them while you are alive.

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

My lord, I will 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.

Go after him, friends. We will 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 will have it tomorrow night. If necessary, you could learn a speech of some twelve or sixteen lines, which I would write and put into it, could you not?

Ay, my lord.

Yes, my lord.

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

Very good. Follow that lord, and make sure you do not mock 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 will leave you until tonight. You are welcome to Elsinore.

Good my lord.

Thank you, my good 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 rogue and low-born slave I am! Is it not monstrous that this actor here, purely in a fiction, in a dream of feeling, could force his soul so completely into line with his own imagining that at its working his whole face went pale, tears came to his eyes, distraction showed in his look, his voice broke, and his entire being matched itself in outward form to what he imagined? 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 audience's ears with terrible speech; drive the guilty mad and terrify the innocent, bewilder the ignorant, and utterly astonish the very powers of eyes and ears. Yet I, a dull, mud-spirited wretch, mope about like a daydreamer, not quickened by my cause, and can say nothing. No, nothing for a king whose property and most precious life were destroyed by a damnable act. Am I a coward? Who calls me a villain, cracks my skull open, pulls off my beard and blows it in my face, twists my nose, calls me a liar right down my throat, as deep as my lungs? Who does this to me? Ha! By God's wounds, I would have to take it: for it must be that I am pigeon-livered and lack the gall to make injury bitter to me, or before now I should have fattened all the kites of the sky with this slave's guts. Bloody, filthy villain! Pitiless, treacherous, lustful, unnatural villain! Oh, vengeance! Why, what an ass I am! This is truly fine: that I, the son of a beloved murdered father, urged to my revenge by heaven and hell, must, like a whore, unload my heart with words and start swearing like a common slut, a kitchen maid! Shame on it! Disgusting! Get to work, my brain! I have heard that guilty people sitting at a play have been so struck to the soul by the sheer skill of the performance that they at once confessed their crimes. For murder, though it has no tongue, will speak with a most miraculous voice. I will have these players perform something like the murder of my father in front of my uncle. I will watch his face; I will probe him to the quick. If he so much as flinches, I know what to do. The spirit I have seen may be the devil, and the devil has the power to take on a pleasing shape; yes, and perhaps, working on my weakness and my melancholy — since he is very strong with such moods — he is deceiving me in order to damn me. I will have evidence more solid than this. The play is the thing in which I will catch the conscience of the King.