Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 4

He will come straight. Look you lay home to him, Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with, And that your Grace hath screen’d and stood between Much heat and him. I’ll silence me e’en here. Pray you be round with him.

He will come right away. Be sure you press him hard. Tell him his tricks have been too outrageous to put up with, and that your Grace has shielded him and stood between him and a great deal of anger. I'll keep quiet right here. Please be blunt with him.

[Within.] Mother, mother, mother.

[Offstage.] Mother, mother, mother.

I’ll warrant you, Fear me not. Withdraw, I hear him coming.

I promise you, don't worry about me. Get out of sight, I hear him coming.

Now, mother, what’s the matter?

Now, mother, what's the trouble?

Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

Hamlet, you have offended your father badly.

Mother, you have my father much offended.

Mother, you have offended my father badly.

Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.

Come, come, you answer with a foolish tongue.

Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.

Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.

Why, how now, Hamlet?

Why, what's this, Hamlet?

What’s the matter now?

What's the trouble now?

Have you forgot me?

Have you forgotten who I am?

No, by the rood, not so. You are the Queen, your husband’s brother’s wife, And, would it were not so. You are my mother.

No, by the cross, I haven't. You are the Queen, your husband's brother's wife, and — I wish it were not so — you are my mother.

Nay, then I’ll set those to you that can speak.

Well then, I'll bring in people who can make you listen.

Come, come, and sit you down, you shall not budge. You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you.

Come, come, sit down, you will not move. You are not going until I hold up a mirror for you where you can see the deepest part of yourself.

What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me? Help, help, ho!

What are you going to do? You aren't going to murder me? Help, help, everyone!

[Behind.] What, ho! help, help, help!

[Behind the hanging.] What, help! Help, help, help!

How now? A rat? [Draws.] Dead for a ducat, dead!

What's this? A rat? [He draws his sword.] I'll bet a gold coin it's dead — dead!

[Behind.] O, I am slain!

[Behind the hanging.] Oh, I am killed!

O me, what hast thou done?

Oh no, what have you done?

Nay, I know not. Is it the King?

Well, I don't know. Is it the King?

O what a rash and bloody deed is this!

Oh, what a reckless and bloody act this is!

A bloody deed. Almost as bad, good mother, As kill a king and marry with his brother.

A bloody act. Almost as bad, good mother, as killing a king and marrying his brother.

As kill a king?

As killing a king?

Ay, lady, ’twas my word.— [To Polonius.] Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune, Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger.— Leave wringing of your hands. Peace, sit you down, And let me wring your heart, for so I shall, If it be made of penetrable stuff; If damned custom have not braz’d it so, That it is proof and bulwark against sense.

Yes, lady, that is what I said. — [To Polonius.] You miserable, reckless, meddling fool, goodbye! I mistook you for your superior. Accept your fate — you find that being too busy carries some danger. — Stop wringing your hands. Quiet, sit down, and let me wring your heart, because that is what I will do, if it is made of material that can be pierced; if wicked habit has not plated it over with brass so that it is armoured and walled against feeling.

What have I done, that thou dar’st wag thy tongue In noise so rude against me?

What have I done, that you dare to let your tongue shout so rudely against me?

Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love, And sets a blister there. Makes marriage vows As false as dicers’ oaths. O such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul, and sweet religion makes A rhapsody of words. Heaven’s face doth glow, Yea this solidity and compound mass, With tristful visage, as against the doom, Is thought-sick at the act.

Such an act as smears the grace and the blush of modesty, calls virtue a hypocrite, takes the rose from the lovely forehead of an innocent love and puts a brand-mark of disease there. It makes marriage vows as false as gamblers' oaths. Oh, such a deed as tears the very soul out of the body of the marriage contract and turns sweet religion into a jumble of empty words. Heaven's face burns red; yes, this solid earth and all its mixed mass, with a sorrowful look, as though facing the Day of Judgement, is sick at heart at the act.

Ay me, what act, That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?

Oh dear, what act, that roars so loudly and thunders even in the table of contents?

Look here upon this picture, and on this, The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See what a grace was seated on this brow, Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself, An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, A station like the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill: A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man. This was your husband. Look you now what follows. Here is your husband, like a mildew’d ear Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes? You cannot call it love; for at your age The hey-day in the blood is tame, it’s humble, And waits upon the judgement: and what judgement Would step from this to this? Sense sure you have, Else could you not have motion; but sure that sense Is apoplex’d, for madness would not err Nor sense to ecstacy was ne’er so thrall’d But it reserv’d some quantity of choice To serve in such a difference. What devil was’t That thus hath cozen’d you at hoodman-blind? Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight, Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all, Or but a sickly part of one true sense Could not so mope. O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell, If thou canst mutine in a matron’s bones, To flaming youth let virtue be as wax, And melt in her own fire. Proclaim no shame When the compulsive ardour gives the charge, Since frost itself as actively doth burn, And reason panders will.

Look here at this picture, and at this one, the painted likeness of two brothers. See what grace sat on this forehead: Hyperion's curls, the brow of Jove himself, an eye like Mars's, made to threaten and command, a bearing like the messenger Mercury's just landed on a hilltop that kisses the sky. Truly a blend and a shape where every god seemed to press his seal, to guarantee to the world that here was a man. This was your husband. Now look what comes next. Here is your husband, like an ear of grain ruined by mildew, blighting his healthy brother. Have you got eyes? Could you leave off grazing on this beautiful mountain and gorge yourself on this swamp? Ha! Have you got eyes? You cannot call it love, because at your age the wild excitement in the blood is tamed, it is obedient, and it follows judgement — and what judgement would move from this man to this one? You certainly have senses, or you could not move; but that sense must be paralysed, for even madness would not go so wrong, nor was sense ever so enslaved by frenzy that it did not keep back some power of choice, enough to serve in a difference as great as this. What devil was it that has tricked you so at blindman's buff? Eyes without touch, touch without sight, ears without hands or eyes, smell alone with nothing else, or even a diseased fragment of one true sense could not be so dazed. Oh shame, where is your blush? Rebellious hell, if you can stir up mutiny in a middle-aged woman's bones, then for burning youth let virtue be like wax and melt in its own fire. Say there is no shame when overpowering desire attacks, since ice itself burns just as eagerly, and reason acts as a pimp for desire.

O Hamlet, speak no more. Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul, And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct.

Oh Hamlet, say no more. You have turned my eyes into my own soul, and there I see such black, deep-dyed stains as will never lose their colour.

Nay, but to live In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, Stew’d in corruption, honeying and making love Over the nasty sty.

Yes, but to live in the foul sweat of a greasy bed, stewed in corruption, whispering sweetly and making love over that filthy pigsty —

O speak to me no more; These words like daggers enter in mine ears; No more, sweet Hamlet.

Oh, speak to me no more. These words go into my ears like daggers. No more, sweet Hamlet.

A murderer and a villain; A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe Of your precedent lord. A vice of kings, A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole And put it in his pocket!

A murderer and a villain; a slave who is not a twentieth part of a tenth of your former husband. A clown of a king, a pickpocket who stole the kingdom and its power, who took the precious crown from a shelf and put it in his pocket!

No more.

No more.

A king of shreds and patches!—

A king made of rags and patches! —

Save me and hover o’er me with your wings, You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure?

Save me, and spread your wings over me, you guardians of heaven! What does your gracious shape want?

Alas, he’s mad.

Oh no, he's mad.

Do you not come your tardy son to chide, That, laps’d in time and passion, lets go by The important acting of your dread command? O say!

Have you not come to scold your slow son, who, wasting time and heat, has let slip the vital carrying out of your fearful command? Oh, speak!

Do not forget. This visitation Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. But look, amazement on thy mother sits. O step between her and her fighting soul. Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works. Speak to her, Hamlet.

Do not forget. This visit is only to sharpen your almost blunted resolve. But look, your mother is overwhelmed with shock. Oh, step between her and her struggling soul. Imagination works most strongly in the weakest bodies. Speak to her, Hamlet.

How is it with you, lady?

How are you, lady?

Alas, how is’t with you, That you do bend your eye on vacancy, And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep, And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm, Your bedded hairs, like life in excrements, Start up and stand an end. O gentle son, Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?

Oh no, how are you, that you fix your eyes on empty space and carry on a conversation with the bodiless air? Your spirit stares wildly out through your eyes, and, like soldiers asleep when the alarm sounds, the hairs lying flat on your head, as if there were life in something lifeless, spring up and stand on end. Oh gentle son, sprinkle cool calm on the heat and flame of your disorder. What are you looking at?

On him, on him! Look you how pale he glares, His form and cause conjoin’d, preaching to stones, Would make them capable.—Do not look upon me, Lest with this piteous action you convert My stern effects. Then what I have to do Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood.

At him, at him! Look how pale he stares. His shape and his grievance together, if he preached to stones, would make them feel it. — Do not look at me, or with that pitiful appearance you will change my hard purpose. Then what I have to do will lack its proper colour — tears instead of blood.

To whom do you speak this?

Who are you saying this to?

Do you see nothing there?

Do you see nothing there?

Nothing at all; yet all that is I see.

Nothing at all; and yet I see everything that is there.

Nor did you nothing hear?

And did you hear nothing?

No, nothing but ourselves.

No, nothing but the two of us.

Why, look you there! look how it steals away! My father, in his habit as he liv’d! Look where he goes even now out at the portal.

Why, look there! Look how it slips away! My father, dressed just as he was when he was alive! Look where he goes, right now, out through the doorway.

This is the very coinage of your brain. This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in.

This is nothing but something your brain has minted. Madness is very skilful at creating things that have no body.

Ecstasy! My pulse as yours doth temperately keep time, And makes as healthful music. It is not madness That I have utter’d. Bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word; which madness Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that flattering unction to your soul That not your trespass, but my madness speaks. It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven, Repent what’s past, avoid what is to come; And do not spread the compost on the weeds, To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue; For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.

Madness! My pulse keeps time as steadily as yours, and makes just as healthy a music. What I have said is not madness. Put me to the test and I will repeat the whole matter word for word, which madness would skip away from. Mother, for the love of God's grace, do not lay that soothing ointment on your soul, that it is my madness speaking and not your sin. It will only cover the ulcer with a thin skin, while the foul rot, tunnelling away inside, infects everything unseen. Confess yourself to heaven, repent what is past, keep clear of what is to come, and do not spread manure on the weeds to make them grow fouler. Forgive me for being virtuous, because in these fat, bloated times virtue itself has to beg pardon from vice — yes, bow and plead for permission to do it any good.

O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.

Oh Hamlet, you have split my heart in two.

O throw away the worser part of it, And live the purer with the other half. Good night. But go not to mine uncle’s bed. Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits evil, is angel yet in this, That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock or livery That aptly is put on. Refrain tonight, And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence. The next more easy; For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And either curb the devil, or throw him out With wondrous potency. Once more, good night, And when you are desirous to be bles’d, I’ll blessing beg of you. For this same lord [Pointing to Polonius.] I do repent; but heaven hath pleas’d it so, To punish me with this, and this with me, That I must be their scourge and minister. I will bestow him, and will answer well The death I gave him. So again, good night. I must be cruel, only to be kind: Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. One word more, good lady.

Oh, throw away the worse part of it and live more purely with the other half. Good night. But do not go to my uncle's bed. Pretend to a virtue even if you do not have it. That monster habit, who devours all feeling of evil ways, is still an angel in this: that to the practice of fine and good actions he likewise gives a coat or uniform that is easily put on. Hold back tonight, and that will make the next abstinence a kind of easy thing. The next one easier still; because practice can almost change the mould that nature made, and can either tame the devil or throw him out with astonishing power. Once more, good night, and when you want to be blessed, I'll ask you for a blessing. As for this lord here [He points to Polonius.] I am sorry; but heaven has chosen it so, to punish me with him and him with me, that I must be their whip and their agent. I'll dispose of him, and I'll answer properly for the death I gave him. So again, good night. I must be cruel only to be kind. This much is bad; worse is still to come. One more word, good lady.

What shall I do?

What am I to do?

Not this, by no means, that I bid you do: Let the bloat King tempt you again to bed, Pinch wanton on your cheek, call you his mouse, And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses, Or paddling in your neck with his damn’d fingers, Make you to ravel all this matter out, That I essentially am not in madness, But mad in craft. ’Twere good you let him know, For who that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise, Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib, Such dear concernings hide? Who would do so? No, in despite of sense and secrecy, Unpeg the basket on the house’s top, Let the birds fly, and like the famous ape, To try conclusions, in the basket creep And break your own neck down.

Not this, by no means, whatever I tell you: let the bloated King coax you into bed again, pinch your cheek lecherously, call you his mouse, and, in return for a couple of foul kisses or his cursed fingers fumbling at your neck, let him get you to unravel the whole business — that I am not truly insane, but only mad by design. It would be a fine thing to let him know, because who that is merely a queen, beautiful, level-headed and wise, would keep such precious matters hidden from a toad, from a bat, from a tomcat? Who would do that? No, go against all good sense and all secrecy, unfasten the basket on the roof, let the birds fly out, and, like the ape in the story, get into the basket to find out what happens, and fall and break your own neck.

Be thou assur’d, if words be made of breath, And breath of life, I have no life to breathe What thou hast said to me.

Be sure of this: if words are made of breath, and breath of life, I have no life left to breathe out a word of what you have said to me.

I must to England, you know that?

I have to go to England, you know that?

Alack, I had forgot. ’Tis so concluded on.

Oh dear, I had forgotten. It has been settled that way.

There’s letters seal’d: and my two schoolfellows, Whom I will trust as I will adders fang’d,— They bear the mandate, they must sweep my way And marshal me to knavery. Let it work; For ’tis the sport to have the enginer Hoist with his own petard, and ’t shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon. O, ’tis most sweet, When in one line two crafts directly meet. This man shall set me packing. I’ll lug the guts into the neighbour room. Mother, good night. Indeed, this counsellor Is now most still, most secret, and most grave, Who was in life a foolish prating knave. Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you. Good night, mother.

There are sealed letters, and my two old school friends — whom I'll trust as much as I'd trust snakes with their fangs in — they carry the orders; they are to clear my path and escort me into some treachery. Let it go ahead. It's a fine joke to have the engineer blown up by his own bomb, and it will be hard luck for me if I don't dig a yard below their tunnels and blow them up to the moon. Oh, it is very sweet when two plots meet head on in one line. This man will get me moving. I'll haul the body into the next room. Mother, good night. Really, this adviser is now perfectly quiet, perfectly secretive and perfectly solemn, who in life was a foolish, chattering rascal. Come, sir, let's get you finished with. Good night, mother.