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by William Shakespeare
[Enter King and Laertes.]
KING.
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
Pursuâd my life.
LAERTES.
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 stirrâd up.
KING.
O, for two special reasons,
Which may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinewâd,
But yet to me they are strong. The Queen his mother
Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,â
My virtue or my plague, be it either which,â
Sheâs 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 timberâd for so loud a wind,
Would have reverted to my bow again,
And not where I had aimâd them.
LAERTES.
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.
KING.
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 lovâd your father, and we love ourself,
And that, I hope, will teach you to imagineâ
[Enter a Messenger.]
How now? What news?
MESSENGER.
Letters, my lord, from Hamlet.
This to your Majesty; this to the Queen.
KING.
From Hamlet! Who brought them?
MESSENGER.
Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not.
They were given me by Claudio. He receivâd them
Of him that brought them.
KING.
Laertes, you shall hear them.
Leave us.
[Exit Messenger.]
[Reads.] âHigh 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.â
What should this mean? Are all the rest come back?
Or is it some abuse, and no such thing?
LAERTES.
Know you the hand?
KING.
âTis Hamletâs character. âNaked!â
And in a postscript here he says âalone.â
Can you advise me?
LAERTES.
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,
âThus diest thou.â
KING.
If it be so, Laertes,â
As how should it be so? How otherwise?â
Will you be rulâd by me?
LAERTES.
Ay, my lord;
So you will not oâerrule me to a peace.
KING.
To thine own peace. If he be now returnâd,
As checking at his voyage, and that he means
No more to undertake it, I will work him
To 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.
LAERTES.
My lord, I will be rulâd;
The rather if you could devise it so
That I might be the organ.
KING.
It falls right.
You have been talkâd of since your travel much,
And that in Hamletâs 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.
LAERTES.
What part is that, my lord?
KING.
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,â
Iâve seen myself, and servâd against, the French,
And they can well on horseback, but this gallant
Had witchcraft inât. He grew unto his seat,
And to such wondrous doing brought his horse,
As had he been incorpsâd and demi-naturâd
With the brave beast. So far he toppâd my thought
That I in forgery of shapes and tricks,
Come short of what he did.
LAERTES.
A Norman wasât?
KING.
A Norman.
LAERTES.
Upon my life, Lamond.
KING.
The very same.
LAERTES.
I know him well. He is the brooch indeed
And gem of all the nation.
KING.
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 âtwould be a sight indeed
If one could match you. The scrimers of their nation
He swore had neither motion, guard, nor eye,
If you opposâd 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 oâer to play with him.
Now, out of this,â
LAERTES.
What out of this, my lord?
KING.
Laertes, was your father dear to you?
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow,
A face without a heart?
LAERTES.
Why ask you this?
KING.
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 âwouldâ changes,
And hath abatements and delays as many
As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents;
And then this âshouldâ is like a spendthrift sigh
That hurts by easing. But to the quick oâ thâulcer:
Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake
To show yourself your fatherâs son in deed,
More than in words?
LAERTES.
To cut his throat iâ thâ church.
KING.
No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize;
Revenge should have no bounds. But good Laertes,
Will you do this, keep close within your chamber.
Hamlet returnâd shall know you are come home:
Weâll 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.
LAERTES.
I will doât.
And for that purpose Iâll 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 scratchâd withal. Iâll touch my point
With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly,
It may be death.
KING.
Letâs 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.
âTwere better not assayâd. Therefore this project
Should have a back or second, that might hold
If this did blast in proof. Soft, let me see.
Weâll make a solemn wager on your cunnings,â
I haât! When in your motion you are hot and dry,
As make your bouts more violent to that end,
And that he calls for drink, Iâll have preparâd him
A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping,
If he by chance escape your venomâd stuck,
Our purpose may hold there.
[Enter Queen.]
How now, sweet Queen?
QUEEN.
One woe doth tread upon anotherâs heel,
So fast they follow. Your sisterâs drownâd, Laertes.
LAERTES.
Drownâd! O, where?
QUEEN.
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 menâs fingers call them.
There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clambâring 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,
Pullâd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
LAERTES.
Alas, then she is drownâd?
QUEEN.
Drownâd, drownâd.
LAERTES.
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.
[Exit.]
KING.
Letâs follow, Gertrude;
How much I had to do to calm his rage!
Now fear I this will give it start again;
Therefore letâs follow.
[Exeunt.]