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 confirm that I am innocent, 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.

So it seems. 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 should have powerfully urged you 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 on the sight of him; and as for me — whether it is my strength or my curse, one or the other — she is so bound into my life and soul that, just as a star cannot move outside its own sphere, I cannot move except through her. The other reason why I could not bring him to a public trial is the great love the common people have for him. They dip all his faults in their affection, and, like the spring that turns wood to stone, they would turn his chains into honours; so that my arrows, too light in the shaft for such a strong wind, would have blown back onto my own bow instead of striking where I had 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 a sister driven into a hopeless condition, whose value, if praise can look back at what is past, stood as the challenger on the highest peak of this whole age for her perfections. 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 I am made of such lifeless, dull stuff that I can let danger pull at my beard and treat it as a game. You shall hear more shortly. I loved your father, and I love myself, 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 given to me by Claudio, who received 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 should know that I have been set down stripped of everything on your kingdom's shore. Tomorrow I shall ask permission to see your kingly eyes. When I do, I will first beg your pardon for it, and then 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 rest come back? 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's Hamlet's writing. 'Stripped of everything!' 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 can make nothing of 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 that is how it is, 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, as long as you don't direct 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.

Into your own peace of mind. If he has now come back, having turned aside from his voyage, and means to go no further with it, I will work on him to attempt something I now have ready in my plan, under which he cannot help but fall; and for his death not a breath of suspicion shall stir, but even his mother will clear it of any scheming 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 — all 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 fits perfectly. You have been much talked about since you went travelling, and in Hamlet's hearing, for one skill in which they say you excel. All your other qualities together did not draw such envy from him as that one did, and that, in my opinion, is of the lowest importance.

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.

Only a ribbon in youth's cap — yet necessary too, for light, careless clothing suits youth no less than dark furs and heavy robes, which suggest prosperity and seriousness, 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 ride well, but this splendid fellow had witchcraft in his riding. He seemed to grow into his saddle, and he brought his horse to such wonderful performances that it was as if he had been made one body and one half-nature with the splendid animal. He went so far beyond what I had imagined that, however I invented moves and tricks in my mind, I fell short of what he did.

A Norman was’t?

He was a Norman?

A Norman.

A Norman.

Upon my life, Lamord.

I'd stake 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 jewelled pin and the gem 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 your 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 no movement, no defence, no eye, if they were set against you. 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 fence 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 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 that love is born in time, and I see, from cases that prove it, that time weakens its spark and fire. In the very flame of love there lives a kind of wick or burnt snuff that will dim it; and nothing stays at the same level of goodness always, for goodness, swelling into an excess, dies of its own too much. What we mean to do, we should do when we mean it, for this 'mean to' changes, and has as many weakenings and delays as there are tongues, hands, and chance events; and then this 'should' is like the sigh of a wastrel, that harms you by the relief it gives. But to the raw centre of the sore: Hamlet is coming back. What would you undertake to show yourself your father's son in action, and not only in words?

To cut his throat i’ th’ church.

To cut his throat in 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 at all should give murder sanctuary; revenge should have no limits. But, good Laertes, if you will do this, keep out of sight in your room. When Hamlet returns he will learn that you have come home. We'll set people on to praise your excellence and put a double polish on the fame the Frenchman gave you, and finally bring the two of you together and lay bets on your heads. He, being careless, very trusting, and free from any scheming, will not examine the swords closely; so that easily, or with a little sleight of hand, you can pick a sword with no protective button on it, and in a supposedly practice thrust 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'll do it. And for that purpose I'll smear my sword. I bought an ointment from a travelling quack so deadly that if you only dip a knife in it, wherever it draws blood no poultice, however rare, made from all the healing herbs that grow under the moon, can save the person from death who has been so much as scratched with it. I'll touch my point with this infection, so that if I graze him at all, it may mean his 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, and weigh what advantages of timing and method may suit us to our purpose. If this should fail, and our intention show through our clumsy performance, it would be better not attempted. Therefore this plan should have a backup or a second, to hold if this one blew up when tested. Wait, let me think. We'll make a formal bet on your relative skills — I have it! When you are hot and thirsty from the exercise — and make your bouts more violent for that very purpose — and he asks for a drink, I'll have a cup prepared for him for the occasion; and if he only sips it, then even if he somehow escapes 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 heels of another, they come so fast. Your sister has 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, and shows its grey-white leaves in the glassy water. She came there and made fantastic garlands of buttercups, nettles, daisies, and those long purple flowers that coarse-tongued shepherds give a ruder name to, but which our chaste girls call dead men's fingers. There, as she was climbing to hang her woven crowns on the drooping branches, a spiteful branch broke, and down she and her garlands of flowers fell into the weeping stream. Her clothes spread out wide and held her up for a while, like a mermaid, and all that time she sang scraps of old songs, as though she had no sense of her own danger, or like a creature born to that water and at home in it. But it could not last long before her clothes, heavy with the water they had drunk, dragged the poor girl from her singing down to a muddy death.

Alas, then she is drown’d?

So she is drowned, then?

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. And yet it is what we naturally do; nature keeps to her habit, whatever shame may say about it. When these tears are done, the woman in me will be gone. Goodbye, my lord. I have words of fire that would gladly blaze out, but this weakness puts them 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 trouble I had to calm his rage! Now I'm afraid this will set it going again. So let's follow.