Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 2

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o’erdoing Termagant. It out-Herods Herod. Pray you avoid it.

Deliver the speech, please, the way I said it to you, lightly and easily on the tongue. But if you bellow it, as so many of your actors do, I might as well have the town-crier speak my lines. And don't saw the air too much with your hand, like this, but use everything gently; because in the very flood, storm, and, as I might say, whirlwind of passion, you must find and create a restraint that gives it smoothness. Oh, it offends me to the soul to hear some loud, wig-headed fellow tear a passion to shreds, to absolute rags, to split the ears of the people standing in the pit, who, for the most part, can take in nothing but incomprehensible mimed shows and noise. I'd have such a fellow whipped for overacting Termagant. It out-Herods Herod. Please avoid it.

I warrant your honour.

I promise you, your honour.

Be not too tame neither; but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold as ’twere the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must in your allowance o’erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen play—and heard others praise, and that highly—not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature’s journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.

Don't be too tame either; let your own judgement be your teacher. Match the action to the word, the word to the action, with this one special care, that you don't go beyond what is natural; because anything so overdone misses the whole point of acting, whose purpose, both at the beginning and now, was and is to hold, as it were, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own face, contempt her own image, and the very age and body of the time its own shape and impression. Now, if this is overdone, or done too slackly, though it makes the ignorant laugh, it can only make the discerning sorry; and their disapproval must, in your reckoning, outweigh a whole theatre full of the others. Oh, there are actors I have seen perform — and heard others praise, and praise highly — who, to put it without blasphemy, having neither the speech of Christians nor the walk of Christian, pagan, or man, have strutted and roared so much that I have thought some of Nature's hired workmen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so horribly.

I hope we have reform’d that indifferently with us, sir.

I hope we have corrected that reasonably well among us, sir.

O reform it altogether. And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them. For there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the meantime some necessary question of the play be then to be considered. That’s villainous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go make you ready.

Oh, correct it completely. And let the men who play your clowns say no more than is written down for them. Because there are some of them who will laugh themselves, to start off a certain number of dull-witted spectators laughing too, even while some necessary point of the play needs attention at that moment. That's wicked, and it shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool who does it. Go and get ready.

How now, my lord? Will the King hear this piece of work?

Well now, my lord? Will the King watch this piece of work?

And the Queen too, and that presently.

And the Queen too, and right away.

Bid the players make haste.

Tell the players to hurry.

Will you two help to hasten them?

Will you two help to hurry them along?

We will, my lord.

We will, my lord.

What ho, Horatio!

Hello there, Horatio!

Here, sweet lord, at your service.

Here, dear lord, at your service.

Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man As e’er my conversation cop’d withal.

Horatio, you are as fair-minded a man as any I have ever dealt with in my life.

O my dear lord.

Oh, my dear lord.

Nay, do not think I flatter; For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter’d? No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice, And could of men distinguish, her election Hath seal’d thee for herself. For thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, A man that Fortune’s buffets and rewards Hast ta’en with equal thanks. And blessed are those Whose blood and judgement are so well co-mingled That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. Something too much of this. There is a play tonight before the King. One scene of it comes near the circumstance Which I have told thee, of my father’s death. I prithee, when thou see’st that act a-foot, Even with the very comment of thy soul Observe mine uncle. If his occulted guilt Do not itself unkennel in one speech, It is a damned ghost that we have seen; And my imaginations are as foul As Vulcan’s stithy. Give him heedful note; For I mine eyes will rivet to his face; And after we will both our judgements join In censure of his seeming.

No, don't think I'm flattering you. What promotion can I hope to get from you, who have no income except your good spirits to feed and clothe you? Why should the poor be flattered? No, let the sugared tongue lick ridiculous splendour, and bend the ready hinges of the knee where profit may come from fawning. Do you hear me? Ever since my dear soul was in charge of her own choosing, and could tell one man from another, her choice has settled on you and marked you as her own. For you have been like a man who, though suffering everything, suffers nothing; a man who has taken Fortune's blows and her rewards with equal thanks. And blessed are those whose passion and judgement are so well mixed that they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger to play whatever note she likes on. Give me the man who is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in the centre of my heart, yes, in my heart of hearts, as I do you. That's a little too much of this. There's a play tonight in front of the King. One scene of it comes close to the circumstances I told you about, of my father's death. Please, when you see that act under way, watch my uncle with the very sharpest attention of your soul. If his hidden guilt doesn't come out of its den at one particular speech, then the ghost we saw is a damned spirit, and my imaginings are as filthy as Vulcan's forge. Watch him carefully; as for me, I'll fix my eyes on his face. And afterwards we'll put our two judgements together in assessing how he looked.

Well, my lord. If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing, And ’scape detecting, I will pay the theft.

Very well, my lord. If he steals anything while this play is going on and gets away undetected, I'll pay for what he took.

They are coming to the play. I must be idle. Get you a place.

They're coming to the play. I must act the idle fool. Find yourself a seat.

How fares our cousin Hamlet?

How is our nephew Hamlet?

Excellent, i’ faith; of the chameleon’s dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed: you cannot feed capons so.

Excellent, honestly; on the chameleon's diet: I eat the air, stuffed with promises. You can't fatten capons that way.

I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these words are not mine.

That answer means nothing to me, Hamlet; those words are not mine.

No, nor mine now. [To Polonius.] My lord, you play’d once i’ th’university, you say?

No, nor mine now. [To Polonius.] My lord, you acted once at the university, you say?

That did I, my lord, and was accounted a good actor.

I did, my lord, and I was considered a good actor.

What did you enact?

What part did you play?

I did enact Julius Caesar. I was kill’d i’ th’ Capitol. Brutus killed me.

I played Julius Caesar. I was killed in the Capitol. Brutus killed me.

It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there. Be the players ready?

It was a brutish part for him to play, killing so capital a calf there. Are the players ready?

Ay, my lord; they stay upon your patience.

Yes, my lord; they're waiting for your permission.

Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me.

Come over here, my dear Hamlet, sit beside me.

No, good mother, here’s metal more attractive.

No, good mother, there's more attractive metal here.

[To the King.] O ho! do you mark that?

[To the King.] Oho! Do you notice that?

Lady, shall I lie in your lap?

Lady, may I lie in your lap?

No, my lord.

No, my lord.

I mean, my head upon your lap?

I mean, my head on your lap?

Ay, my lord.

Yes, my lord.

Do you think I meant country matters?

Do you think I meant indecent things?

I think nothing, my lord.

I think nothing, my lord.

That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs.

That's a pleasant thought to lie between a girl's legs.

What is, my lord?

What is, my lord?

Nothing.

Nothing.

You are merry, my lord.

You're in a merry mood, my lord.

Who, I?

Who, me?

Ay, my lord.

Yes, my lord.

O God, your only jig-maker! What should a man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within’s two hours.

Oh God, I'm your only writer of comic dances! What should a man do but be merry? Look how cheerful my mother looks, and my father died within the last two hours.

Nay, ’tis twice two months, my lord.

No, it's twice two months, my lord.

So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables. O heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year. But by’r lady, he must build churches then; or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is ‘For, O, for O, the hobby-horse is forgot!’

That long? Well then, let the devil wear black, because I'll have a suit trimmed with sable fur. Heavens! Dead two months and not forgotten yet? Then there's hope that a great man's memory may outlast his life by six months. But by our lady, he'll have to build churches in that case; otherwise he'll have to put up with being forgotten, like the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is, 'For, oh, for oh, the hobby-horse is forgotten!'

What means this, my lord?

What does this mean, my lord?

Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief.

Well, this is sneaking wickedness; it means mischief.

Belike this show imports the argument of the play.

Probably this show gives the plot of the play.

We shall know by this fellow: the players cannot keep counsel; they’ll tell all.

We'll find out from this fellow: actors can't keep a secret; they'll tell everything.

Will they tell us what this show meant?

Will they tell us what that show meant?

Ay, or any show that you’ll show him. Be not you ashamed to show, he’ll not shame to tell you what it means.

Yes, or any show that you'll show him. Don't you be ashamed to show, and he won't be ashamed to tell you what it means.

You are naught, you are naught: I’ll mark the play.

You're wicked, you're wicked. I'll pay attention to the play.

For us, and for our tragedy, Here stooping to your clemency, We beg your hearing patiently.

For ourselves, and for our tragedy, bowing here to your mercy, we ask you to listen patiently.

Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?

Is this a prologue, or the motto engraved in a ring?

’Tis brief, my lord.

It's short, my lord.

As woman’s love.

Like a woman's love.

Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart gone round Neptune’s salt wash and Tellus’ orbed ground, And thirty dozen moons with borrow’d sheen About the world have times twelve thirties been, Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands Unite commutual in most sacred bands.

A full thirty times Phoebus' chariot has gone around Neptune's salt water and Tellus' round earth, and thirty dozen moons with borrowed brightness have circled the world twelve times thirty, since love joined our hearts and Hymen joined our hands together in the most sacred bonds.

So many journeys may the sun and moon Make us again count o’er ere love be done. But, woe is me, you are so sick of late, So far from cheer and from your former state, That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust, Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must: For women’s fear and love holds quantity, In neither aught, or in extremity. Now what my love is, proof hath made you know, And as my love is siz’d, my fear is so. Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.

May the sun and moon make us count over just as many journeys again before our love is finished. But, alas for me, you have been so ill lately, so far from happiness and from the way you used to be, that I'm worried about you. Yet, though I worry, it mustn't trouble you at all, my lord: because women's fear and love go together in the same measure — either there's nothing of either, or there's too much of both. Now, you know from proof how great my love is, and my fear is the same size as my love. Where love is great, the smallest doubts are fears; where small fears grow great, great love is growing there.

Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too: My operant powers their functions leave to do: And thou shalt live in this fair world behind, Honour’d, belov’d, and haply one as kind For husband shalt thou—

Truly, I must leave you, my love, and soon too: my bodily powers are giving up their work. And you will live on in this fair world behind me, honoured, loved, and perhaps for a husband you'll have another as kind as—

O confound the rest. Such love must needs be treason in my breast. In second husband let me be accurst! None wed the second but who kill’d the first.

Oh, put a stop to the rest. Such love would have to be treason in my heart. Let me be cursed if I take a second husband! Nobody marries a second except the one who killed the first.

[Aside.] Wormwood, wormwood.

[Aside.] Bitter wormwood, wormwood.

The instances that second marriage move Are base respects of thrift, but none of love. A second time I kill my husband dead, When second husband kisses me in bed.

The reasons that prompt a second marriage are low considerations of profit, and none of love. I kill my husband a second time when a second husband kisses me in bed.

I do believe you think what now you speak; But what we do determine, oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory, Of violent birth, but poor validity: Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree, But fall unshaken when they mellow be. Most necessary ’tis that we forget To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt. What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose. The violence of either grief or joy Their own enactures with themselves destroy. Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament; Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident. This world is not for aye; nor ’tis not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change, For ’tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love. The great man down, you mark his favourite flies, The poor advanc’d makes friends of enemies; And hitherto doth love on fortune tend: For who not needs shall never lack a friend, And who in want a hollow friend doth try, Directly seasons him his enemy. But orderly to end where I begun, Our wills and fates do so contrary run That our devices still are overthrown. Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own. So think thou wilt no second husband wed, But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.

I do believe you mean what you say now; but we often break what we resolve. Resolution is only the slave of memory, violently born but weak in lasting power. Right now, like unripe fruit, it clings to the tree, but it falls without being shaken once it ripens. It's absolutely necessary that we forget to pay ourselves what we owe ourselves. What we promise ourselves in a fit of passion loses its point when the passion ends. The violence of either grief or joy destroys its own fulfilment along with itself. Where joy revels most, grief laments most; grief turns joyful and joy grieves on the slightest occasion. This world does not last forever; nor is it strange that even our loves should change along with our fortunes. It is a question still left for us to settle, whether love leads fortune, or fortune leads love. When a great man falls, you'll notice his favourite runs off; when a poor man rises, his enemies become his friends. So far, love follows fortune: for the man who has no need will never lack a friend, and the man in need who tests a hollow friend immediately turns him into an enemy. But, to end in order where I began, our wills and our fates run so contrary to each other that our plans are always overthrown. Our thoughts are ours, but their outcomes are not ours at all. So you think you will never marry a second husband, but your thoughts will die when your first lord is dead.

Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light, Sport and repose lock from me day and night, To desperation turn my trust and hope, An anchor’s cheer in prison be my scope, Each opposite that blanks the face of joy, Meet what I would have well, and it destroy! Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife, If, once a widow, ever I be wife.

May the earth give me no food, nor heaven any light, may pleasure and rest be shut away from me day and night, may my trust and hope turn to despair, may a hermit's cell in prison be all the world I get, may every hostile thing that drains the colour from the face of joy come to meet whatever I wish well and destroy it! May lasting trouble pursue me both here and in the next life, if, once a widow, I ever become a wife again.

[To Ophelia.] If she should break it now.

[To Ophelia.] What if she were to break that vow now?

’Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile. My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile The tedious day with sleep. [Sleeps.]

That's a deep oath. Sweet, leave me here for a while. My spirits are growing dull, and I would gladly cheat the tiresome day with sleep. [He sleeps.]

Sleep rock thy brain, And never come mischance between us twain.

May sleep rock your brain, and may misfortune never come between the two of us.

Madam, how like you this play?

Madam, how do you like this play?

The lady protests too much, methinks.

The lady swears too much, I think.

O, but she’ll keep her word.

Oh, but she'll keep her word.

Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in’t?

Have you heard the plot? Is there nothing offensive in it?

No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i’ th’ world.

No, no, they're only joking — poisoning as a joke; nothing offensive in the world.

What do you call the play?

What do you call the play?

The Mousetrap. Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna. Gonzago is the Duke’s name, his wife Baptista: you shall see anon; ’tis a knavish piece of work: but what o’ that? Your majesty, and we that have free souls, it touches us not. Let the gall’d jade wince; our withers are unwrung.

The Mousetrap. And how so? Figuratively. This play is the picture of a murder committed in Vienna. Gonzago is the Duke's name, his wife Baptista: you'll see shortly; it's a villainous piece of work. But what of that? Your majesty, and we who have clear consciences, it doesn't touch us. Let the galled horse flinch; our shoulders aren't rubbed raw.

This is one Lucianus, nephew to the King.

This is one Lucianus, nephew to the King.

You are a good chorus, my lord.

You make a good commentator, my lord.

I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying.

I could supply the dialogue between you and your love, if I could watch the puppets playing together.

You are keen, my lord, you are keen.

You are sharp, my lord, you are sharp.

It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge.

It would cost you a groan to blunt my edge.

Still better, and worse.

Better still, and worse.

So you mistake your husbands.—Begin, murderer. Pox, leave thy damnable faces, and begin. Come, the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.

That's how you take your husbands, for better and worse. — Begin, murderer. Plague on you, stop making those damnable faces and begin. Come: "The croaking raven bellows for revenge."

Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing, Confederate season, else no creature seeing; Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected, Thy natural magic and dire property On wholesome life usurp immediately.

Thoughts black, hands ready, drugs suitable, and the time right; the occasion is my accomplice, and no creature is watching. You foul mixture, gathered from midnight weeds, three times blighted and three times infected by Hecate's curse, let your natural magic and dreadful power seize a healthy life at once.

He poisons him i’ th’garden for’s estate. His name’s Gonzago. The story is extant, and written in very choice Italian. You shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife.

He poisons him in the garden for his property. His name is Gonzago. The story still survives, and it's written in very fine Italian. You'll see shortly how the murderer wins the love of Gonzago's wife.

The King rises.

The King is getting up.

What, frighted with false fire?

What, frightened by a blank shot?

How fares my lord?

How is my lord?

Give o’er the play.

Stop the play.

Give me some light. Away.

Give me some light. Let's go.

All. Lights, lights, lights.

All. Lights, lights, lights.

Why, let the strucken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play; For some must watch, while some must sleep, So runs the world away. Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers, if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me; with two Provincial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir?

Why, let the wounded deer go off and weep, and the unhurt stag go and play; for some must stay awake while others sleep — that's how the world goes. Wouldn't this performance, sir, and a forest of feathers — if the rest of my fortunes turn against me — along with two rosettes from Provence on my slashed shoes, earn me a place in a company of players, sir?

Half a share.

Half a share.

A whole one, I. For thou dost know, O Damon dear, This realm dismantled was Of Jove himself, and now reigns here A very, very—pajock.

A whole one for me. For you know, dear Damon, this kingdom was stripped of Jove himself, and now there reigns here a very, very — peacock.

You might have rhymed.

You could have made it rhyme.

O good Horatio, I’ll take the ghost’s word for a thousand pound. Didst perceive?

Oh, good Horatio, I'd stake a thousand pounds on the ghost's word. Did you notice?

Very well, my lord.

Very clearly, my lord.

Upon the talk of the poisoning?

When the poisoning was mentioned?

I did very well note him.

I watched him very closely.

Ah, ha! Come, some music. Come, the recorders. For if the king like not the comedy, Why then, belike he likes it not, perdie. Come, some music.

Aha! Come, some music. Come, the recorders. For if the king doesn't like the comedy, why then, most likely he doesn't like it, by God. Come, some music.

Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you.

My good lord, allow me a word with you.

Sir, a whole history.

Sir, a whole story.

The King, sir—

The King, sir—

Ay, sir, what of him?

Yes, sir, what about him?

Is in his retirement, marvellous distempered.

Has withdrawn to his room, and is extraordinarily upset.

With drink, sir?

With drink, sir?

No, my lord; rather with choler.

No, my lord; more with anger.

Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to the doctor, for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps plunge him into far more choler.

Your wisdom would show itself more impressively if you reported this to his doctor, because if I were to give him his purge it would perhaps plunge him into far more anger.

Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame, and start not so wildly from my affair.

My good lord, put your talk into some order, and don't shy away so wildly from my business.

I am tame, sir, pronounce.

I'm tame, sir; speak.

The Queen your mother, in most great affliction of spirit, hath sent me to you.

The Queen your mother, in the greatest distress of mind, has sent me to you.

You are welcome.

You're welcome.

Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do your mother’s commandment; if not, your pardon and my return shall be the end of my business.

No, my good lord, this politeness isn't of the genuine sort. If you would be so good as to give me a sensible answer, I'll carry out your mother's order; if not, your excuse and my going back will be the end of my errand.

Sir, I cannot.

Sir, I cannot.

What, my lord?

Cannot what, my lord?

Make you a wholesome answer. My wit’s diseased. But, sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command; or rather, as you say, my mother. Therefore no more, but to the matter. My mother, you say,—

Give you a sensible answer. My mind is diseased. But, sir, such an answer as I can give is at your command — or rather, as you say, my mother's. So no more of this; to the point. My mother, you say—

Then thus she says: your behaviour hath struck her into amazement and admiration.

This, then, is what she says: your behaviour has struck her with astonishment and bewilderment.

O wonderful son, that can so stonish a mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother’s admiration?

Oh, what a wonderful son, who can astonish a mother like that! But is there nothing following close on the heels of this mother's bewilderment?

She desires to speak with you in her closet ere you go to bed.

She wants to speak with you in her private room before you go to bed.

We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us?

We shall obey, even if she were ten times our mother. Have you any further business with us?

My lord, you once did love me.

My lord, you once loved me.

And so I do still, by these pickers and stealers.

And I still do, by these pickers and stealers.

Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? You do surely bar the door upon your own liberty if you deny your griefs to your friend.

My good lord, what is the cause of your bad temper? You are certainly shutting the door on your own freedom if you refuse to tell your troubles to your friend.

Sir, I lack advancement.

Sir, I'm not getting promoted.

How can that be, when you have the voice of the King himself for your succession in Denmark?

How can that be, when you have the King's own vote for your succession in Denmark?

Ay, sir, but while the grass grows—the proverb is something musty.

Yes, sir, but "while the grass grows"— the proverb is a bit stale.

O, the recorders. Let me see one.—To withdraw with you, why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil?

Oh, the recorders. Let me see one.—To speak with you in private: why do you keep trying to get upwind of me, as if you wanted to drive me into a net?

O my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.

Oh, my lord, if my sense of duty makes me too forward, it's because my love has no manners.

I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe?

I don't quite understand that. Will you play on this pipe?

My lord, I cannot.

My lord, I can't.

I pray you.

Please do.

Believe me, I cannot.

Believe me, I can't.

I do beseech you.

I beg you.

I know no touch of it, my lord.

I don't know how to finger it at all, my lord.

’Tis as easy as lying: govern these ventages with your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.

It's as easy as lying: control these holes with your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will speak the most eloquent music. Look, these are the stops.

But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony. I have not the skill.

But I can't command these to produce any harmony. I don't have the skill.

Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. ’Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

Well, look now, what a worthless thing you make of me! You would play on me; you would pretend to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would test me from my lowest note to the top of my range; and there is a lot of music, an excellent voice, in this little instrument, yet you can't make it speak. By God's blood, do you think I'm easier to play on than a pipe? Call me whatever instrument you like — though you can finger me, you can't play on me.

God bless you, sir.

God bless you, sir.

My lord, the Queen would speak with you, and presently.

My lord, the Queen wants to speak with you, and right away.

Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel?

Do you see that cloud over there that's almost in the shape of a camel?

By the mass, and ’tis like a camel indeed.

By the mass, it really is like a camel.

Methinks it is like a weasel.

It seems to me it's like a weasel.

It is backed like a weasel.

It has a back like a weasel.

Or like a whale.

Or like a whale.

Very like a whale.

Very like a whale.

Then will I come to my mother by and by.—They fool me to the top of my bent.—I will come by and by.

Then I'll come to my mother shortly.—They humour me as far as I can stretch.—I'll come shortly.

I will say so.

I'll tell her so.

By and by is easily said. Leave me, friends.

"Shortly" is easy to say. Leave me, friends.

’Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on. Soft now, to my mother. O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom: Let me be cruel, not unnatural. I will speak daggers to her, but use none; My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites. How in my words somever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent.

Now it's the very hour of night when witches work, when graveyards gape open and hell itself breathes out infection into this world. Now I could drink hot blood and do such bitter work as the daylight would shudder to look at. Gently now — to my mother. Heart, don't lose your own nature; never let the soul of Nero enter this steady breast. Let me be cruel, not unnatural. I will speak daggers to her, but use none. My tongue and my soul will be hypocrites in this. However much my words shame her, my soul, never agree to back them up with action.