Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 3

I like him not, nor stands it safe with us To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you, I your commission will forthwith dispatch, And he to England shall along with you. The terms of our estate may not endure Hazard so near us as doth hourly grow Out of his lunacies.

I don't like him, and it isn't safe for us to let his madness roam freely. So get ready; I'll have your official papers drawn up at once, and he'll go to England along with you. The demands of our position can't put up with a danger so close to us as the one that grows hour by hour out of his mad fits.

We will ourselves provide. Most holy and religious fear it is To keep those many many bodies safe That live and feed upon your Majesty.

We'll get ourselves ready. It is a most holy and religious kind of care to keep safe those many, many people who live and feed upon your Majesty.

The single and peculiar life is bound With all the strength and armour of the mind, To keep itself from ’noyance; but much more That spirit upon whose weal depend and rest The lives of many. The cease of majesty Dies not alone; but like a gulf doth draw What’s near it with it. It is a massy wheel Fix’d on the summit of the highest mount, To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things Are mortis’d and adjoin’d; which when it falls, Each small annexment, petty consequence, Attends the boist’rous ruin. Never alone Did the King sigh, but with a general groan.

A single, private life is obliged to use all the strength and armour of the mind to keep itself out of harm; but much more so that spirit on whose well-being the lives of many depend and rest. When a king stops living, he does not die alone; like a whirlpool he draws down whatever is near him with him. He is a massive wheel fixed on the top of the highest mountain, to whose huge spokes ten thousand smaller things are joined and fastened; and when it falls, every little attachment, every minor part, goes with it in the violent ruin. The King never sighed alone, but with a groan from everybody.

Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage; For we will fetters put upon this fear, Which now goes too free-footed.

Get ready, please, for this quick voyage; for we will put chains on this danger, which is walking about too freely now.

We will haste us.

We'll hurry.

My lord, he’s going to his mother’s closet. Behind the arras I’ll convey myself To hear the process. I’ll warrant she’ll tax him home, And as you said, and wisely was it said, ’Tis meet that some more audience than a mother, Since nature makes them partial, should o’erhear The speech of vantage. Fare you well, my liege, I’ll call upon you ere you go to bed, And tell you what I know.

My lord, he's on his way to his mother's private room. I'll hide myself behind the wall hanging to hear how it goes. I promise you she'll scold him thoroughly. And as you said — and it was wisely said — it's fitting that someone besides a mother, since nature makes mothers biased, should overhear the conversation from a good position. Goodbye, my lord; I'll come to you before you go to bed and tell you what I learn.

Thanks, dear my lord.

Thank you, my dear lord.

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t,— A brother’s murder! Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offence? And what’s in prayer but this twofold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon’d being down? Then I’ll look up. My fault is past. But O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder! That cannot be; since I am still possess’d Of those effects for which I did the murder,— My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May one be pardon’d and retain th’offence? In the corrupted currents of this world Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law. But ’tis not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature, and we ourselves compell’d Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? What rests? Try what repentance can. What can it not? Yet what can it, when one cannot repent? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that struggling to be free, Art more engag’d! Help, angels! Make assay: Bow, stubborn knees; and heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe. All may be well.

Oh, my crime is foul; it stinks all the way to heaven. It carries the first and oldest curse upon it — a brother's murder! I cannot pray, though I want to as keenly as I am able. My guilt is stronger and defeats my strong intention, and, like a man committed to two tasks at once, I stand hesitating over which to begin with, and neglect them both. What if this cursed hand were coated thick with a brother's blood? Is there not enough rain in the kind heavens to wash it as white as snow? What is mercy for except to face crime directly? And what is there in prayer but this double power — to hold us back before we fall, or to pardon us once we're down? Then I'll look up. My sin is committed. But oh, what kind of prayer will serve for me? "Forgive me my foul murder"? That can't work, since I still hold the very things I did the murder for — my crown, my own ambition, and my queen. Can a man be pardoned and keep what he gained by the offence? In the corrupt dealings of this world, the offender's gold-filled hand may push justice aside, and often the stolen prize itself is used to buy off the law. But it isn't like that above; there is no cheating there, where the deed is seen in its true nature, and we ourselves are forced to testify to the very face and front of our own sins. What then? What's left? Try what repentance can do. What can it not do? But what can it do, when one cannot repent? Oh, wretched condition! Oh, heart as black as death! Oh, soul caught like a bird in glue, which struggling to get free is only stuck faster! Help, angels! Make the attempt. Bend, stubborn knees; and heart with strings of steel, be soft as the sinews of a newborn baby. All may yet be well.

Now might I do it pat, now he is praying. And now I’ll do’t. And so he goes to heaven; And so am I reveng’d. That would be scann’d: A villain kills my father, and for that I, his sole son, do this same villain send To heaven. O, this is hire and salary, not revenge. He took my father grossly, full of bread, With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; And how his audit stands, who knows save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought, ’Tis heavy with him. And am I then reveng’d, To take him in the purging of his soul, When he is fit and season’d for his passage? No. Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent: When he is drunk asleep; or in his rage, Or in th’incestuous pleasure of his bed, At gaming, swearing; or about some act That has no relish of salvation in’t, Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven, And that his soul may be as damn’d and black As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays. This physic but prolongs thy sickly days.

Now I could do it neatly, now while he is praying. And now I'll do it. And so he goes to heaven; and so I am revenged. That needs looking at closely: a villain kills my father, and in return I, his only son, send this same villain to heaven. Oh, this is paying him a wage, not revenge. He caught my father crudely, with his stomach full, with all his sins in full bloom, as fresh as May; and how his account stands, who knows but heaven? But by our reasoning and the way we think it through, it goes badly for him. And am I then revenged if I take this man while he is cleansing his soul, when he is ready and prepared for the journey? No. Get up, sword, and learn a more horrible grip: when he is drunk and asleep, or in a rage, or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed, gambling, swearing, or busy with some act that has no trace of salvation in it — then trip him, so that his heels kick at heaven and his soul is as damned and black as hell, where it's going. My mother is waiting. This medicine only stretches out your sick days.

The King rises and advances.

The King gets up and comes forward.

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

My words fly upward, my thoughts stay down here below. Words without thoughts never reach heaven.