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'll 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 matter?

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 matter 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, not at all. 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.

All right then, I'll send people to you who can make you talk.

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're not going until I hold up a mirror for you where you can see the innermost part of yourself.

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

What are you going to do? You won't murder me, will you? Help, help, someone!

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

[From behind.] What, someone! Help, help, help!

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

What's this? A rat? [He draws his sword.] Dead for a ducat — dead!

[Behind.] O, I am slain!

[From behind.] Oh, I'm killed!

O me, what hast thou done?

Oh no, what have you done?

Nay, I know not. Is it the King?

No, 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's what I said. — [To Polonius.] You miserable, rash, interfering fool, goodbye! I took you for your better. Take what you've got coming; you find that being too busy carries some danger. — Stop wringing your hands. Quiet, sit down, and let me wring your heart, for that's what I'll do, if it's made of anything a blow can get through; if damnable habit hasn't plated it over with brass so that it's armoured and walled up 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 wag your tongue in such rude noise 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.

An act like this: one that smears the grace and blush of modesty, calls virtue a hypocrite, takes the rose from the fair forehead of an innocent love and puts a sore 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 words. Heaven's face burns red; yes, this solid globe and all its mixed matter, with a sorrowful face as though Judgement Day had come, is sick at heart over 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 its 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 portrait, and at this one, the painted likenesses of two brothers. See what grace sat on this forehead: Hyperion's curls, the brow of Jove himself, an eye like Mars, made to threaten and command, a bearing like the messenger Mercury just alighted on a hill that kisses the sky — a combination and a shape, indeed, on which 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 a diseased ear of corn blighting his healthy brother. Do you have eyes? Could you give up grazing on this fair mountain and gorge yourself on this swamp? Ha! Do you have eyes? You can't call it love; for at your age the wild excitement in the blood is tame, it's obedient, and it waits on judgement — and what judgement would step down from this to this? You certainly have senses, or else you couldn't move; but surely that sense is paralysed, for madness would not make such a mistake, nor was sense ever so enslaved to frenzy that it didn't keep back some power of choice to serve in a difference as plain as this. What devil was it that tricked you like this at blind man's buff? Eyes without touch, touch without sight, ears without hands or eyes, smell and nothing else, or even a diseased part of one working sense could not be so dull. Oh, shame, where is your blush? Rebellious hell, if you can stir up mutiny in a mature woman's bones, then let virtue in burning youth be like wax and melt in its own fire. Declare there's no shame when overpowering passion makes its attack, since frost itself burns just as busily, 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 turn my eyes into my very 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.

No, but to live in the foul sweat of a greasy bed, stewed in corruption, whispering sweet words and making love over the 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 of a tenth of your former husband. A clown of a king, a pickpocket who stole the empire and its rule, who took the precious crown off 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 guards of heaven! What does your gracious figure 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!

Haven't you come to scold your slow son, who, wasting time and passion, is letting the vital carrying out of your dreadful command slip by? 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 purpose. But look, bewilderment has taken hold of your mother. 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?

No, how are you, that you fix your eyes on empty space and hold a conversation with the bodiless air? Your spirits look wildly out through your eyes, and, like soldiers asleep when the alarm sounds, the hairs lying flat on your head, as though they were lifeless things come alive, jump up and stand on end. Oh, gentle son, sprinkle cool patience 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 cause together, if he preached to stones, would make them able to feel. — Don't look at me, in case that pitiful sight changes my hard purpose. Then what I have to do will lose its true colour: tears instead of blood, perhaps.

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's there.

Nor did you nothing hear?

And did you hear nothing?

No, nothing but ourselves.

No, nothing but our own voices.

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, in the same clothes he wore when he was alive! Look where he's going, right now, out through the doorway.

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

This is entirely something your brain has minted. Madness is very skilled at creating things with 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 evenly as yours, and makes just as healthy music. It isn't madness that I've been speaking. Put me to the test, and I'll repeat the whole matter word for word — which madness would go skipping away from. Mother, for the love of grace, don't put that comforting ointment on your soul, that it's my madness speaking and not your sin. That will only put skin and a film over the ulcerous spot, while the foul infection, tunnelling away inside, spreads unseen. Confess yourself to heaven, repent what's past, avoid what's to come; and don't spread the manure on the weeds to make them grow ranker still. Forgive me this virtue of mine; for in these flabby, bloated times virtue itself has to beg pardon of vice, yes, and bow and court it for permission to do it 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 don't go to my uncle's bed. Put on a virtue, even if you don't have one. That monster habit, who devours all feeling for evil ways, is an angel in this respect: that to the practice of fine and good actions he also gives a coat or uniform that goes on easily. Hold back tonight, and that will make the next abstinence a kind of easy thing; the next easier still. For practice can almost change the stamp of nature, and either restrain the devil or throw him out with wonderful power. Once more, good night, and when you want to be blessed, I'll beg a blessing from you. As for this lord [He points to Polonius.] I am sorry; but heaven has arranged it so, to punish me with him and him with me, that I have to be their whip and their servant. I'll dispose of him, and I'll answer properly for the death I gave him. So, good night again. I must be cruel only in order to be kind. So bad begins, and worse is still to come. One word more, good lady.

What shall I do?

What should I 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, not on any account, whatever I tell you to do: let the bloated King coax you into bed again, pinch your cheek lecherously, call you his mouse, and, in return for a couple of stale kisses or his damned fingers fiddling at your neck, let him get you to unravel this whole business — that I'm not really mad at all, but only mad by design. It would be a good thing to let him know. For who that is nothing but a queen, beautiful, level-headed, wise, would hide such precious matters from a toad, from a bat, a tomcat? Who would do that? No — in defiance of good sense and secrecy, unfasten the cage on the roof of the house, let the birds fly out, and, like the famous ape, to find out how it works, crawl into the cage and break your own neck falling.

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 a word of what you've 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's 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 schoolfellows, whom I'll trust as much as I'd trust snakes with their fangs in — they carry the orders, they're to clear my path and escort me into villainy. Let it go ahead; it's the fun of the thing to have the engineer blown up with his own bomb. And it will be hard luck if I don't dig a yard below their tunnels and blow them to the moon. Oh, it's a lovely thing when two plots meet head-on in the same line. This man will get me moving. I'll haul the guts into the next room. Mother, good night. Truly, this councillor is now very still, very secret, and very grave, who in life was a foolish, chattering rogue. Come, sir, let's get you finished with. Good night, mother.