Hamlet, Act 4, Scene 7

Now must your conscience my acquittance seal, And you must put me in your heart for friend, Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear, That he which hath your noble father slain Pursu’d my life.

Now your own conscience must sign my acquittal, and you must take me into your heart as a friend, since you have heard, and with an understanding ear, that the man who killed your noble father was hunting my life.

It well appears. But tell me Why you proceeded not against these feats, So crimeful and so capital in nature, As by your safety, wisdom, all things else, You mainly were stirr’d up.

It certainly seems so. But tell me why you took no action against these deeds, so criminal and so deserving of death, when your own safety, your wisdom, and everything else must have urged you strongly to it.

O, for two special reasons, Which may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinew’d, But yet to me they are strong. The Queen his mother Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,— My virtue or my plague, be it either which,— She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul, That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, I could not but by her. The other motive, Why to a public count I might not go, Is the great love the general gender bear him, Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, Would like the spring that turneth wood to stone, Convert his gyves to graces; so that my arrows, Too slightly timber’d for so loud a wind, Would have reverted to my bow again, And not where I had aim’d them.

Oh, for two particular reasons, which may seem to you, perhaps, very weak, but to me they are strong. The Queen his mother lives almost entirely by the sight of his face; and as for myself — call it my virtue or my curse, whichever it is — she is so joined to my life and soul that, just as a star cannot move except in its own sphere, I cannot move except through her. The other reason why I could not bring it to a public trial is the great love the common people bear him: they would dip all his faults in their affection, and like the spring that turns wood into stone, they would turn his chains into ornaments; so that my arrows, made of wood too light for such a strong wind, would have come back to my own bow instead of landing where I aimed them.

And so have I a noble father lost, A sister driven into desperate terms, Whose worth, if praises may go back again, Stood challenger on mount of all the age For her perfections. But my revenge will come.

And so I have lost a noble father, and have a sister driven into desperate madness, whose worth — if praise can look back at what is gone — stood on a mountain top challenging the whole age for her perfection. But my revenge will come.

Break not your sleeps for that. You must not think That we are made of stuff so flat and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger, And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more. I lov’d your father, and we love ourself, And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine—

Don't lose sleep over that. You must not think that we are made of such flat, dull stuff that we can let danger shake us by the beard and treat it as a game. You shall hear more shortly. I loved your father, and we love ourself, and that, I hope, will teach you to imagine —

How now? What news?

What is it? What news?

Letters, my lord, from Hamlet. This to your Majesty; this to the Queen.

Letters, my lord, from Hamlet. This one for your Majesty; this one for the Queen.

From Hamlet! Who brought them?

From Hamlet! Who brought them?

Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not. They were given me by Claudio. He receiv’d them Of him that brought them.

Sailors, my lord, they say; I did not see them. They were handed to me by Claudio. He got them from the man who brought them.

Laertes, you shall hear them. Leave us.

Laertes, you shall hear them. Leave us.

[Reads.] ‘High and mighty, you shall know I am set naked on your kingdom. Tomorrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes. When I shall, first asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasions of my sudden and more strange return. HAMLET.’

[He reads.] 'High and mighty, you shall know that I have been set down stripped bare in your kingdom. Tomorrow I shall ask permission to see your kingly eyes. When I do, first begging your pardon for it, I will tell you the reasons for my sudden and very strange return. HAMLET.'

What should this mean? Are all the rest come back? Or is it some abuse, and no such thing?

What can this mean? Have all the others come back too? Or is it some trick, and there is nothing in it?

Know you the hand?

Do you recognise the handwriting?

’Tis Hamlet’s character. ‘Naked!’ And in a postscript here he says ‘alone.’ Can you advise me?

It is Hamlet's own hand. 'Stripped bare!' And in a postscript here he says 'alone.' Can you advise me?

I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come, It warms the very sickness in my heart That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, ‘Thus diest thou.’

I am at a loss about it, my lord. But let him come; it warms the very sickness in my heart that I shall live to tell him to his face, 'This is how you die.'

If it be so, Laertes,— As how should it be so? How otherwise?— Will you be rul’d by me?

If it is so, Laertes — though how can it be so? and yet how else? — will you let me direct you?

Ay, my lord; So you will not o’errule me to a peace.

Yes, my lord, so long as you don't overrule me into making peace.

To thine own peace. If he be now return’d, As checking at his voyage, and that he means No more to undertake it, I will work him To an exploit, now ripe in my device, Under the which he shall not choose but fall; And for his death no wind shall breathe, But even his mother shall uncharge the practice And call it accident.

To your own peace. If he has now returned, having turned aside from his voyage and meaning not to go through with it, I will draw him into an undertaking, now fully formed in my plan, under which he cannot help but fall; and for his death not a breath of suspicion shall stir — even his mother will clear the scheme of blame and call it an accident.

My lord, I will be rul’d; The rather if you could devise it so That I might be the organ.

My lord, I will be directed by you — the more willingly if you could arrange it so that I might be the instrument.

It falls right. You have been talk’d of since your travel much, And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality Wherein they say you shine. Your sum of parts Did not together pluck such envy from him As did that one, and that, in my regard, Of the unworthiest siege.

That works out well. Since your travels you have been much talked of, and that in Hamlet's hearing, for a skill in which they say you shine. All your other accomplishments together did not draw such envy from him as that one did — and that one, in my judgment, of the lowest rank.

What part is that, my lord?

What skill is that, my lord?

A very riband in the cap of youth, Yet needful too, for youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it wears Than settled age his sables and his weeds, Importing health and graveness. Two months since Here was a gentleman of Normandy,— I’ve seen myself, and serv’d against, the French, And they can well on horseback, but this gallant Had witchcraft in’t. He grew unto his seat, And to such wondrous doing brought his horse, As had he been incorps’d and demi-natur’d With the brave beast. So far he topp’d my thought That I in forgery of shapes and tricks, Come short of what he did.

Nothing but a ribbon in youth's cap — yet necessary too, for the light and careless clothing that youth wears suits it no less than dark furs and robes, signifying health and gravity, suit settled old age. Two months ago there was a gentleman here from Normandy. I have seen the French myself, and fought against them, and they are good on horseback, but this gallant had witchcraft in it. He seemed to grow into his saddle, and made his horse do such wonderful things, as though he had been made one body and half one nature with the splendid beast. He so far outdid anything I could imagine that, whatever shapes and tricks I invent in my mind, I fall short of what he did.

A Norman was’t?

Was he a Norman?

A Norman.

A Norman.

Upon my life, Lamord.

I'd bet my life it was Lamord.

The very same.

The very same.

I know him well. He is the brooch indeed And gem of all the nation.

I know him well. He is indeed the ornament and jewel of the whole nation.

He made confession of you, And gave you such a masterly report For art and exercise in your defence, And for your rapier most especially, That he cried out ’twould be a sight indeed If one could match you. The scrimers of their nation He swore had neither motion, guard, nor eye, If you oppos’d them. Sir, this report of his Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy That he could nothing do but wish and beg Your sudden coming o’er to play with him. Now, out of this,—

He spoke of you, and gave you such a masterly report for skill and practice in fencing — and for your rapier most of all — that he exclaimed it would truly be a sight if anyone could match you. He swore that the fencers of his nation had neither movement, guard, nor eye if you were set against them. Sir, this report of his so poisoned Hamlet with envy that he could do nothing but wish and beg for you to come over quickly and play a match with him. Now, out of this —

What out of this, my lord?

What out of this, my lord?

Laertes, was your father dear to you? Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart?

Laertes, was your father dear to you? Or are you like a painted picture of grief, a face with no heart behind it?

Why ask you this?

Why do you ask this?

Not that I think you did not love your father, But that I know love is begun by time, And that I see, in passages of proof, Time qualifies the spark and fire of it. There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it; And nothing is at a like goodness still, For goodness, growing to a pleurisy, Dies in his own too much. That we would do, We should do when we would; for this ‘would’ changes, And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; And then this ‘should’ is like a spendthrift sigh That hurts by easing. But to the quick o’ th’ulcer: Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake To show yourself your father’s son in deed, More than in words?

Not that I think you did not love your father, but because I know love is begun by time, and I see, in proven cases, that time weakens its spark and fire. Within the very flame of love there lives a kind of wick or burnt snuff that dims it; and nothing stays at the same level of goodness, for goodness, swelling into a disease, dies of its own excess. What we mean to do, we should do when we mean it, for this 'would' changes, and has as many weakenings and delays as there are tongues, hands, and chance events; and then this 'should' is like a spendthrift's sigh that harms by giving relief. But to the heart of the sore: Hamlet is coming back. What would you undertake to show yourself your father's son in deeds rather than in words?

To cut his throat i’ th’ church.

Cut his throat in the church.

No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize; Revenge should have no bounds. But good Laertes, Will you do this, keep close within your chamber. Hamlet return’d shall know you are come home: We’ll put on those shall praise your excellence, And set a double varnish on the fame The Frenchman gave you, bring you in fine together And wager on your heads. He, being remiss, Most generous, and free from all contriving, Will not peruse the foils; so that with ease, Or with a little shuffling, you may choose A sword unbated, and in a pass of practice, Requite him for your father.

No place, indeed, should shelter murder; revenge should have no limits. But, good Laertes, if you will do this, keep shut up in your room. Hamlet, once he is back, will learn that you have come home. We'll set people on to praise your excellence and put a double coat of varnish on the reputation the Frenchman gave you; we'll finally bring the two of you together and make bets on your heads. He, being careless, very generous, and free of all scheming, will not inspect the swords; so that easily, or with a little sleight of hand, you can pick a sword with no blunting button on it, and in a supposed practice bout pay him back for your father.

I will do’t. And for that purpose I’ll anoint my sword. I bought an unction of a mountebank So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death This is but scratch’d withal. I’ll touch my point With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly, It may be death.

I will do it. And for that purpose I'll smear my sword with poison. I bought an ointment from a travelling quack so deadly that if you only dip a knife in it, then wherever it draws blood no poultice, however rare, gathered from all the healing herbs under the moon, can save from death the thing that is so much as scratched by it. I'll touch my sword point with this infection, so that if I graze him even lightly it may mean death.

Let’s further think of this, Weigh what convenience both of time and means May fit us to our shape. If this should fail, And that our drift look through our bad performance. ’Twere better not assay’d. Therefore this project Should have a back or second, that might hold If this did blast in proof. Soft, let me see. We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings,— I ha’t! When in your motion you are hot and dry, As make your bouts more violent to that end, And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping, If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck, Our purpose may hold there.

Let's think about this further; weigh what advantages of timing and means may suit us to our plan. If this should fail, and our purpose show through our clumsy performance, it would be better not attempted. Therefore this scheme should have a backup, a second, that could hold if this one broke apart when tested. Wait, let me think. We'll make a formal bet on your skills — I have it! When you are hot and dry from exertion — and make your bouts more violent to bring that on — and he calls for a drink, I'll have a cup prepared for him for the occasion; and if he merely sips it, then even if he happens to escape your poisoned thrust, our purpose may still succeed.

How now, sweet Queen?

What is it, sweet Queen?

One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, So fast they follow. Your sister’s drown’d, Laertes.

One sorrow treads on the heel of another, they come so fast. Your sister is drowned, Laertes.

Drown’d! O, where?

Drowned! Oh, where?

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoary leaves in the glassy stream. There with fantastic garlands did she make Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them. There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke, When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide, And mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up, Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes, As one incapable of her own distress, Or like a creature native and indued Unto that element. But long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death.

There is a willow that grows leaning over a brook, showing its grey leaves in the mirror-like water. She had made fantastic garlands there of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples — which coarse-mouthed shepherds give a ruder name, but our chaste girls call them dead men's fingers. There, as she was climbing to hang her crown of weeds on the drooping branches, a spiteful branch broke, and down she and her weedy trophies fell into the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide, and for a while they held her up like a mermaid, and during that time she sang snatches of old songs, as if she had no understanding of her own danger, or as if she were a creature born to that element and at home in it. But it could not last long before her garments, heavy with the water they had drunk, pulled the poor wretch from her singing down to a muddy death.

Alas, then she is drown’d?

So then she is drowned?

Drown’d, drown’d.

Drowned, drowned.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears. But yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will. When these are gone, The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord, I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, But that this folly douts it.

You have too much water already, poor Ophelia, and so I hold back my tears. But still, it is our human way: nature keeps its habit, whatever shame may say about it. When these tears are gone, the woman in me will be done with. Goodbye, my lord. I have a speech of fire that would gladly blaze out, but this foolishness puts it out.

Let’s follow, Gertrude; How much I had to do to calm his rage! Now fear I this will give it start again; Therefore let’s follow.

Let's follow him, Gertrude. What a job I had calming his rage! Now I'm afraid this will set it going again. So let's follow.