Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1

And can you by no drift of circumstance Get from him why he puts on this confusion, Grating so harshly all his days of quiet With turbulent and dangerous lunacy?

And can you find no way, by any hint in the conversation, to get him to say why he puts on this confusion, scraping so harshly against all his quiet days with this violent and dangerous madness?

He does confess he feels himself distracted, But from what cause he will by no means speak.

He does admit that he feels disturbed in his mind, but he absolutely refuses to say what the cause is.

Nor do we find him forward to be sounded, But with a crafty madness keeps aloof When we would bring him on to some confession Of his true state.

And we don't find him willing to be tested either. He keeps his distance with a cunning madness whenever we try to lead him into admitting anything about his real condition.

Did he receive you well?

Did he receive you well?

Most like a gentleman.

Very much like a gentleman.

But with much forcing of his disposition.

But forcing his mood a great deal to do it.

Niggard of question, but of our demands, Most free in his reply.

Stingy with questions of his own, but very generous in answering ours.

Did you assay him to any pastime?

Did you try to tempt him into any entertainment?

Madam, it so fell out that certain players We o’er-raught on the way. Of these we told him, And there did seem in him a kind of joy To hear of it. They are about the court, And, as I think, they have already order This night to play before him.

Madam, it happened that we overtook certain actors on the way. We told him about them, and there did seem to be a kind of joy in him at hearing of it. They are here at the court, and I believe they have already been ordered to perform before him tonight.

’Tis most true; And he beseech’d me to entreat your Majesties To hear and see the matter.

That's quite true, and he begged me to invite your Majesties to hear and see the piece.

With all my heart; and it doth much content me To hear him so inclin’d. Good gentlemen, give him a further edge, And drive his purpose on to these delights.

With all my heart, and it pleases me greatly to hear he is so inclined. Good gentlemen, sharpen his appetite further, and push him on towards these amusements.

We shall, my lord.

We will, my lord.

Sweet Gertrude, leave us too, For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither, That he, as ’twere by accident, may here Affront Ophelia. Her father and myself, lawful espials, Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing unseen, We may of their encounter frankly judge, And gather by him, as he is behav’d, If’t be th’affliction of his love or no That thus he suffers for.

Sweet Gertrude, leave us as well, because we have secretly sent for Hamlet to come here, so that he may meet Ophelia face to face here as if by chance. Her father and I, spies within our rights, will place ourselves so that, seeing without being seen, we can judge their meeting honestly, and work out from his behaviour whether it is the suffering of love or not that he is tormented by.

I shall obey you. And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish That your good beauties be the happy cause Of Hamlet’s wildness: so shall I hope your virtues Will bring him to his wonted way again, To both your honours.

I will obey you. And as for you, Ophelia, I hope that your good looks are the fortunate cause of Hamlet's wild state; then I can hope your virtues will bring him back to his usual self, to the honour of you both.

Madam, I wish it may.

Madam, I hope it may.

Ophelia, walk you here.—Gracious, so please you, We will bestow ourselves.—[To Ophelia.] Read on this book, That show of such an exercise may colour Your loneliness.—We are oft to blame in this, ’Tis too much prov’d, that with devotion’s visage And pious action we do sugar o’er The devil himself.

Ophelia, you walk over here.—Your Majesty, if you please, we will place ourselves out of sight.—[To Ophelia.] Read in this book, so that the appearance of such a devotion may give an excuse for your being alone.—We are often to blame in this; it has been shown too often that with a devout face and pious behaviour we sugar-coat the devil himself.

[Aside.] O ’tis too true! How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience! The harlot’s cheek, beautied with plastering art, Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it Than is my deed to my most painted word. O heavy burden!

[Aside.] Oh, that's all too true! How sharp a whip-stroke that speech gives my conscience! The prostitute's cheek, beautified with a plastering of make-up, is no uglier beside the paint that helps it than my deed is beside my most painted words. Oh, what a heavy burden!

I hear him coming. Let’s withdraw, my lord.

I hear him coming. Let's withdraw, my lord.

To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die—to sleep, No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to: ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action. Soft you now, The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember’d.

To exist, or not to exist, that is the question. Is it nobler in the mind to endure the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take up weapons against a sea of troubles and end them by fighting back? To die—to sleep, that's all; and by that sleep to say we put an end to the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that the flesh inherits: that is an ending devoutly to be wished for. To die, to sleep. To sleep, and possibly to dream—yes, there's the difficulty, because in that sleep of death, what dreams may come to us once we have shaken off this coil of mortal life, must make us hesitate. That is the consideration that makes us put up with disaster for such a long life. For who would bear the whips and insults of the age, the oppressor's injustice, the proud man's contempt, the agonies of scorned love, the delays of the law, the arrogance of officials, and the kicks that patient worth receives from unworthy people, when he could settle his own account with a mere dagger? Who would carry these burdens, grunting and sweating under a weary life, if it weren't that the dread of something after death—that undiscovered country, from whose borders no traveller comes back—confuses the will, and makes us rather endure the evils we have than fly to others we know nothing about? So reflection makes cowards of us all, and so the natural colour of determination is made sickly and pale by the cast of thought, and great and weighty undertakings, because of this consideration, have their currents diverted and lose the name of action. But wait now, the fair Ophelia! Nymph, in your prayers may all my sins be remembered.

Good my lord, How does your honour for this many a day?

My good lord, how has your honour been these many days?

I humbly thank you; well, well, well.

I thank you humbly; well, well, well.

My lord, I have remembrances of yours That I have longed long to re-deliver. I pray you, now receive them.

My lord, I have keepsakes of yours that I have long wanted to give back. I beg you, take them now.

No, not I. I never gave you aught.

No, not me. I never gave you anything.

My honour’d lord, you know right well you did, And with them words of so sweet breath compos’d As made the things more rich; their perfume lost, Take these again; for to the noble mind Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. There, my lord.

My honoured lord, you know perfectly well you did, and along with them words composed of such sweet breath that they made the things richer. Their perfume is gone now; take these back, for to a noble mind rich gifts grow poor when the givers turn out unkind. There, my lord.

Ha, ha! Are you honest?

Ha, ha! Are you chaste?

My lord?

My lord?

Are you fair?

Are you beautiful?

What means your lordship?

What does your lordship mean?

That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.

That if you are chaste and beautiful, your chastity should allow your beauty no conversation with it.

Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?

Could beauty, my lord, have any better dealings than with chastity?

Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness. This was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once.

Yes, truly; because the power of beauty will turn chastity from what it is into a brothel-keeper sooner than the strength of chastity can change beauty into its own likeness. This used to be a paradox, but now the age proves it. I did love you once.

Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.

Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.

You should not have believed me; for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I loved you not.

You shouldn't have believed me, because virtue cannot be grafted onto our old stock without our still tasting of the stock. I did not love you.

I was the more deceived.

Then I was all the more deceived.

Get thee to a nunnery. Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves all, believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where’s your father?

Get yourself to a convent. Why would you want to be a breeder of sinners? I am reasonably virtuous myself, and yet I could accuse myself of such things that it would have been better if my mother had never given birth to me. I am very proud, vengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my command than I have thoughts to hold them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to carry them out in. Why should fellows like me be crawling about between earth and heaven? We are all out-and-out scoundrels; believe none of us. Go your way to a convent. Where is your father?

At home, my lord.

At home, my lord.

Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in’s own house. Farewell.

Let the doors be locked on him, so he can play the fool nowhere but in his own house. Goodbye.

O help him, you sweet heavens!

Oh, help him, you sweet heavens!

If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry. Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go: farewell. Or if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; and quickly too. Farewell.

If you do marry, I'll give you this curse as your dowry: be as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, and you still won't escape slander. Get yourself to a convent, go; goodbye. Or if you absolutely must marry, marry a fool, because wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a convent, go, and quickly too. Goodbye.

O heavenly powers, restore him!

Oh, heavenly powers, cure him!

I have heard of your paintings too, well enough. God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another. You jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nickname God’s creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t, it hath made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages. Those that are married already, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go.

I have heard about your face-painting too, well enough. God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another. You prance, you trip along, and you lisp, and you give God's creatures nicknames, and you pass off your lewdness as innocence. Enough, I'll have no more of it; it has driven me mad. I tell you, we will have no more marriages. Those who are already married, all but one, shall live; the rest shall stay as they are. To a convent, go.

O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword, Th’expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mould of form, Th’observ’d of all observers, quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, That suck’d the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh, That unmatch’d form and feature of blown youth Blasted with ecstasy. O woe is me, T’have seen what I have seen, see what I see.

Oh, what a noble mind has been wrecked here! The courtier's eye, the soldier's sword, the scholar's tongue, the hope and flower of this fair country, the mirror of fashion and the pattern of good form, the one everybody else looked to—all completely, completely brought down! And I, the most cast-down and wretched of ladies, who drank in the honey of his musical vows, now see that noble and most kingly reason like sweet bells rung out of tune and harsh; that unmatched shape and appearance of youth in full bloom blighted with madness. Oh, misery is mine, to have seen what I have seen, and to see what I see.

Love? His affections do not that way tend, Nor what he spake, though it lack’d form a little, Was not like madness. There’s something in his soul O’er which his melancholy sits on brood, And I do doubt the hatch and the disclose Will be some danger, which for to prevent, I have in quick determination Thus set it down: he shall with speed to England For the demand of our neglected tribute: Haply the seas and countries different, With variable objects, shall expel This something settled matter in his heart, Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus From fashion of himself. What think you on’t?

Love? His feelings don't run that way. Nor was what he said, though it was a little disordered, anything like madness. There's something in his soul that his melancholy is sitting on like a brooding bird, and I fear that what hatches out of it will be some danger. To prevent that, I have quickly made up my mind and settled it this way: he shall go to England at once, to demand the tribute that has been neglected. Perhaps the seas and different countries, with their changing sights, will drive out this thing that has fixed itself in his heart, which his brain keeps hammering at and so puts him out of his own normal manner. What do you think of it?

It shall do well. But yet do I believe The origin and commencement of his grief Sprung from neglected love. How now, Ophelia? You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said, We heard it all. My lord, do as you please, But if you hold it fit, after the play, Let his queen mother all alone entreat him To show his grief, let her be round with him, And I’ll be plac’d, so please you, in the ear Of all their conference. If she find him not, To England send him; or confine him where Your wisdom best shall think.

It will do well. But I still believe that the origin and beginning of his sorrow sprang from neglected love. Well then, Ophelia? You needn't tell us what Lord Hamlet said; we heard it all. My lord, do as you please, but if you think it suitable, after the play let his mother the queen, quite alone, urge him to reveal his grief; let her be blunt with him, and I'll be placed, if it pleases you, where I can hear all their conversation. If she can't find him out, send him to England, or shut him up wherever your wisdom thinks best.

It shall be so. Madness in great ones must not unwatch’d go.

So it shall be. Madness in the great must not go unwatched.