Hamlet, Act 4, Scene 5

I will not speak with her.

I will not speak with her.

She is importunate, indeed distract. Her mood will needs be pitied.

She keeps insisting; she really is out of her mind. Her state has to be pitied.

What would she have?

What does she want?

She speaks much of her father; says she hears There’s tricks i’ th’ world, and hems, and beats her heart, Spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in doubt, That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts, Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. ’Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.

She talks a great deal about her father; she says she hears there is trickery in the world, and she clears her throat and beats her breast, takes offence at trifles, and says things that make no clear sense, that carry only half a meaning. Her talk is nothing, but its shapelessness does move her listeners to piece together a meaning; they guess at it, and patch the words together to fit their own thoughts, and what with her winks and nods and gestures to prompt them, it really would make one think there might be some meaning there — nothing certain, but plenty of it unpleasant. It would be as well if she were spoken with, for she may scatter dangerous suspicions in minds ready to breed mischief.

Let her come in.

Let her come in.

To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss. So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

To my sick soul — such is the true nature of sin — every trifle seems the opening of some great disaster. Guilt is so full of clumsy suspicion that it spills itself out of fear of being spilled.

Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark?

Where is the beautiful Queen of Denmark?

How now, Ophelia?

What is it, Ophelia?

[Sings.] How should I your true love know From another one? By his cockle hat and staff And his sandal shoon.

[She sings.] How am I to tell your true love from any other man? By his shell-trimmed hat and his walking staff and his sandalled shoes.

Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?

Oh, sweet lady, what does this song mean?

Say you? Nay, pray you mark. [Sings.] He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone, At his head a grass green turf, At his heels a stone.

What did you say? No, please listen. [She sings.] He is dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone; at his head a patch of green grass, at his heels a stone.

Nay, but Ophelia—

No, but Ophelia—

Pray you mark. [Sings.] White his shroud as the mountain snow.

Please listen. [She sings.] His shroud as white as snow on the mountain.

Alas, look here, my lord!

Oh, look here, my lord!

[Sings.] Larded all with sweet flowers; Which bewept to the grave did not go With true-love showers.

[She sings.] Covered all over with sweet flowers; which went to the grave unwept, without the showers of tears of a true love.

How do you, pretty lady?

How are you, pretty lady?

Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table!

Well, God reward you! They say the owl was once a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but not what we may become. God be at your table!

Conceit upon her father.

She is dwelling on her father.

Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this: [Sings.] Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day, All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine.

Please, let's say nothing about this; but when they ask you what it means, say this: [She sings.] Tomorrow is Saint Valentine's day, early in the morning, and I, a girl, at your window, to be your Valentine.

Then up he rose and donn’d his clothes, And dupp’d the chamber door, Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more.

Then he got up and put on his clothes and opened the bedroom door, and let the girl in, and she never left there a girl again.

Pretty Ophelia!

Pretty Ophelia!

Indeed la, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t. [Sings.] By Gis and by Saint Charity, Alack, and fie for shame! Young men will do’t if they come to’t; By Cock, they are to blame.

Indeed I will, without swearing an oath, I'll finish it. [She sings.] By Jesus and by Saint Charity, oh, and shame on it! Young men will do it if they get the chance; by God, they are to blame.

Quoth she, before you tumbled me, You promis’d me to wed. So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun, An thou hadst not come to my bed.

She said: before you tumbled me you promised to marry me. And so I would have done, by that sun up there, if you hadn't come into my bed.

How long hath she been thus?

How long has she been like this?

I hope all will be well. We must be patient. But I cannot choose but weep, to think they would lay him i’ th’ cold ground. My brother shall know of it. And so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night.

I hope everything will turn out well. We must be patient. But I can't help crying, to think that they would lay him in the cold ground. My brother shall hear of it. And so I thank you for your good advice. Come, my carriage! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night.

Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.

Follow her closely; keep a careful watch on her, please.

O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father’s death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions. First, her father slain; Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Of his own just remove; the people muddied, Thick, and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers For good Polonius’ death; and we have done but greenly In hugger-mugger to inter him. Poor Ophelia Divided from herself and her fair judgement, Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts. Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France, Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds, And wants not buzzers to infect his ear With pestilent speeches of his father’s death, Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d, Will nothing stick our person to arraign In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like to a murdering piece, in many places Gives me superfluous death.

Oh, this is the poison of deep grief; it all comes from her father's death. Oh Gertrude, Gertrude, when sorrows come they don't come as single scouts, but in whole battalions. First, her father killed; next, your son gone, and he the most violent cause of his own deserved removal; the people stirred up, muddy and unhealthy in their thoughts and their whispering about good Polonius's death — and we acted foolishly, burying him in secret haste. Poor Ophelia is separated from herself and from her sound judgement, without which we are only painted figures or plain animals. Last, and as serious as all the rest, her brother has come secretly from France, feeds on his bewilderment, keeps himself hidden, and has no lack of gossips to poison his ear with plague-like talk about his father's death — and in that talk, driven by need and short of facts, they will not hesitate to accuse me, whispering it from ear to ear. Oh my dear Gertrude, all this, like a cannon loaded with scattering shot, hits me in many places and kills me over and over.

Alack, what noise is this?

Oh no, what is this noise?

Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door.

Where are my Swiss guards? Have them guard the door.

What is the matter?

What is going on?

Save yourself, my lord. The ocean, overpeering of his list, Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, O’erbears your offices. The rabble call him lord, And, as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, custom not known, The ratifiers and props of every word, They cry ‘Choose we! Laertes shall be king!’ Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds, ‘Laertes shall be king, Laertes king.’

Save yourself, my lord. The ocean rising above its shore does not swallow the flatlands with more furious speed than young Laertes, at the head of a rioting mob, is overrunning your officers. The mob call him lord, and as if the world were only now beginning, with the past forgotten and tradition unknown — tradition, which confirms and supports every word we speak — they shout, 'We choose! Laertes shall be king!' Caps, hands and voices cheer it to the sky: 'Laertes shall be king, Laertes king.'

How cheerfully on the false trail they cry. O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs.

How happily they bay on the wrong scent. Oh, this is running the trail backwards, you treacherous Danish dogs.

The doors are broke.

The doors are broken open.

Where is this king?—Sirs, stand you all without.

Where is this king? — Men, all of you wait outside.

Danes. No, let’s come in.

Danes. No, let's come in.

I pray you, give me leave.

Please, leave me to it.

We will, we will.

We will, we will.

I thank you. Keep the door. O thou vile king, Give me my father.

Thank you. Guard the door. Oh you vile king, give me back my father.

Calmly, good Laertes.

Calmly, good Laertes.

That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard; Cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot Even here between the chaste unsmirched brow Of my true mother.

Any drop of my blood that stays calm declares me a bastard; it calls my father a cheated husband and brands my true mother a whore, right here on her chaste, unstained forehead.

What is the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?— Let him go, Gertrude. Do not fear our person. There’s such divinity doth hedge a king, That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will.—Tell me, Laertes, Why thou art thus incens’d.—Let him go, Gertrude:— Speak, man.

What is the reason, Laertes, that your rebellion looks so enormous? — Let him go, Gertrude. Have no fear for me. There is such holiness fencing a king about that treason can only glance at what it wants to do, and carries out little of its will. — Tell me, Laertes, why you are so enraged. — Let him go, Gertrude. — Speak, man.

Where is my father?

Where is my father?

Dead.

Dead.

But not by him.

But not by him.

Let him demand his fill.

Let him ask all he wants.

How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with. To hell, allegiance! Vows, to the blackest devil! Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation. To this point I stand, That both the worlds, I give to negligence, Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d Most throughly for my father.

How did he come to die? I won't be tricked. To hell with allegiance! Vows, go to the blackest devil! Conscience and grace, go to the deepest pit! I defy damnation. This is where I stand: I don't care about this world or the next, let come what comes; I only mean to be revenged thoroughly for my father.

Who shall stay you?

Who will stop you?

My will, not all the world. And for my means, I’ll husband them so well, They shall go far with little.

My own will — not all the world. And as for my resources, I'll manage them so well that they will go a long way with little.

Good Laertes, If you desire to know the certainty Of your dear father’s death, is’t writ in your revenge That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and foe, Winner and loser?

Good Laertes, if you want to know the truth about your dear father's death, does your plan of revenge lay it down that, like a man sweeping up all the stakes, you will drag down friend and enemy alike, the innocent and the guilty?

None but his enemies.

No one but his enemies.

Will you know them then?

Do you want to know who they are, then?

To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms; And, like the kind life-rendering pelican, Repast them with my blood.

To his good friends I'll open my arms this wide; and like the loving pelican that gives its own life, I'll feed them with my blood.

Why, now you speak Like a good child and a true gentleman. That I am guiltless of your father’s death, And am most sensibly in grief for it, It shall as level to your judgement ’pear As day does to your eye.

There now, you speak like a good son and a true gentleman. That I am innocent of your father's death, and feel the keenest grief for it, will be as clearly plain to your judgement as daylight is to your eye.

[Within.] Let her come in.

[Offstage.] Let her come in.

How now! What noise is that?

What is this! What is that noise?

O heat, dry up my brains. Tears seven times salt, Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye. By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight, Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! O heavens, is’t possible a young maid’s wits Should be as mortal as an old man’s life? Nature is fine in love, and where ’tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself After the thing it loves.

Oh heat, dry up my brains. Tears seven times as salty, burn out the sight and power of my eyes. By heaven, your madness shall be paid for measure for measure, until our side of the scale swings the balance down. Oh rose of May! Dear girl, loving sister, sweet Ophelia! Oh heavens, is it possible that a young girl's mind should be as fragile as an old man's life? A loving nature is delicately tuned, and where it is delicate it sends some precious part of itself after the thing it loves.

[Sings.] They bore him barefac’d on the bier, Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny And on his grave rain’d many a tear.— Fare you well, my dove!

[She sings.] They carried him with his face uncovered on the coffin stand, hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny, and on his grave fell many a tear. — Goodbye, my dove!

Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus.

If you had your wits and were urging me to revenge, you could not move me as much as this.

You must sing ‘Down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.’ O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward that stole his master’s daughter.

You have to sing 'Down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.' Oh, how well the refrain suits it! It's about the treacherous steward who stole his master's daughter.

This nothing’s more than matter.

This nonsense means more than sense would.

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.

Here's rosemary, that's for remembrance; please, love, remember. And here are pansies, that's for thoughts.

A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted.

A lesson in madness: thoughts and remembrance matched together.

There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you; and here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died. They say he made a good end. [Sings.] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.

There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you; and here's some for me. We can call it herb of grace on Sundays. Oh, you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they all withered when my father died. They say he made a good end. [She sings.] For handsome sweet Robin is all my joy.

Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself She turns to favour and to prettiness.

Grief and suffering, agony, hell itself she turns into charm and prettiness.

[Sings.] And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead, Go to thy death-bed, He never will come again.

[She sings.] And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead, go to your deathbed, he never will come again.

His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll. He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan. God ha’ mercy on his soul.

His beard was as white as snow, his head all pale yellow. He is gone, he is gone, and we waste our moaning. God have mercy on his soul.

And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God b’ wi’ ye.

And on all Christian souls, I pray God. God be with you.

Do you see this, O God?

Do you see this, O God?

Laertes, I must commune with your grief, Or you deny me right. Go but apart, Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will, And they shall hear and judge ’twixt you and me. If by direct or by collateral hand They find us touch’d, we will our kingdom give, Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours To you in satisfaction; but if not, Be you content to lend your patience to us, And we shall jointly labour with your soul To give it due content.

Laertes, I must share in your grief, or else you refuse me my right. Just go aside, choose whichever of your friends you think wisest, and they shall listen and judge between you and me. If they find that I am implicated, directly or indirectly, I will give my kingdom, my crown, my life, and everything I call my own to you in compensation; but if not, be content to lend me your patience, and I will work together with your soul to give it the satisfaction it deserves.

Let this be so; His means of death, his obscure burial,— No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o’er his bones, No noble rite, nor formal ostentation,— Cry to be heard, as ’twere from heaven to earth, That I must call’t in question.

Let it be so. The way he died, his obscure burial — no memorial, no sword, no coat of arms hung above his bones, no noble ceremony, no formal display — they cry out to be heard, as if from heaven to earth, so that I must demand an accounting for it.

So you shall. And where th’offence is let the great axe fall. I pray you go with me.

So you shall. And where the guilt lies, let the great axe fall. Please come with me.