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    GUILDENSTERN, and Attendants

  • Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern!
    Moreover that we much did long to see you,
    The need we have to use you did provoke
    Our hasty sending. Something have you heard
    Of Hamlet's transformation; so call it,
    Sith nor the exterior nor the inward man
    Resembles that it was. What it should be,
    More than his father's death, that thus hath put him
    So much from the understanding of himself,
    I cannot dream of: I entreat you both,
    That, being of so young days brought up with him,
    And sith so neighbour'd to his youth and havior,
    That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court
    Some little time: so by your companies
    To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather,
    So much as from occasion you may glean,
    Whether aught, to us unknown, afflicts him thus,
    That, open'd, lies within our remedy.

  • Good gentlemen, he hath much talk'd of you;
    And sure I am two men there are not living
    To whom he more adheres. If it will please you
    To show us so much gentry and good will
    As to expend your time with us awhile,
    For the supply and profit of our hope,
    Your visitation shall receive such thanks
    As fits a king's remembrance.

  • Both your majesties
    Might, by the sovereign power you have of us,
    Put your dread pleasures more into command
    Than to entreaty.

  • But we both obey,
    And here give up ourselves, in the full bent
    To lay our service freely at your feet,
    To be commanded.

  • Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.

  • Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz:
    And I beseech you instantly to visit
    My too much changed son. Go, some of you,
    And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is.

  • Heavens make our presence and our practises
    Pleasant and helpful to him!


  • Enter POLONIUS

  • The ambassadors from Norway, my good lord,
    Are joyfully return'd.

  • Thou still hast been the father of good news.

  • Have I, my lord? I assure my good liege,
    I hold my duty, as I hold my soul,
    Both to my God and to my gracious king:
    And I do think, or else this brain of mine
    Hunts not the trail of policy so sure
    As it hath used to do, that I have found
    The very cause of Hamlet's lunacy.

  • O, speak of that; that do I long to hear.

  • Give first admittance to the ambassadors;
    My news shall be the fruit to that great feast.

  • Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in.
    He tells me, my dear Gertrude, he hath found
    The head and source of all your son's distemper.

  • I doubt it is no other but the main;
    His father's death, and our o'erhasty marriage.

  • Well, we shall sift him.
    Welcome, my good friends!
    Say, Voltimand, what from our brother Norway?

  • Most fair return of greetings and desires.
    Upon our first, he sent out to suppress
    His nephew's levies; which to him appear'd
    To be a preparation 'gainst the Polack;
    But, better look'd into, he truly found
    It was against your highness: whereat grieved,
    That so his sickness, age and impotence
    Was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests
    On Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys;
    Receives rebuke from Norway, and in fine
    Makes vow before his uncle never more
    To give the assay of arms against your majesty.
    Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy,
    Gives him three thousand crowns in annual fee,
    And his commission to employ those soldiers,
    So levied as before, against the Polack:
    With an entreaty, herein further shown,
    Giving a paper
    That it might please you to give quiet pass
    Through your dominions for this enterprise,
    On such regards of safety and allowance
    As therein are set down.

  • It likes us well;
    And at our more consider'd time well read,
    Answer, and think upon this business.
    Meantime we thank you for your well-took labour:
    Go to your rest; at night we'll feast together:
    Most welcome home!


  • This business is well ended.
    My liege, and madam, to expostulate
    What majesty should be, what duty is,
    Why day is day, night night, and time is time,
    Were nothing but to waste night, day and time.
    Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,
    And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,
    I will be brief: your noble son is mad:
    Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,
    What is't but to be nothing else but mad?
    But let that go.

  • More matter, with less art.

  • Madam, I swear I use no art at all.
    That he is mad, 'tis true: 'tis true 'tis pity;
    And pity 'tis 'tis true: a foolish figure;
    But farewell it, for I will use no art.
    Mad let us grant him, then: and now remains
    That we find out the cause of this effect,
    Or rather say, the cause of this defect,
    For this effect defective comes by cause:
    Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. Perpend.
    I have a daughter--have while she is mine--
    Who, in her duty and obedience, mark,
    Hath given me this: now gather, and surmise.
    'To the celestial and my soul's idol, the most
    beautified Ophelia,'--
    That's an ill phrase, a vile phrase; 'beautified' is
    a vile phrase: but you shall hear. Thus:
    'In her excellent white bosom, these, &c.'

  • Came this from Hamlet to her?

  • Good madam, stay awhile; I will be faithful.
    'Doubt thou the stars are fire;
    Doubt that the sun doth move;
    Doubt truth to be a liar;
    But never doubt I love.
    'O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers;
    I have not art to reckon my groans: but that
    I love thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu.
    'Thine evermore most dear lady, whilst
    this machine is to him, HAMLET.'
    This, in obedience, hath my daughter shown me,
    And more above, hath his solicitings,
    As they fell out by time, by means and place,
    All given to mine ear.

  • But how hath she
    Received his love?

  • What do you think of me?

  • As of a man faithful and honourable.

  • I would fain prove so. But what might you think,
    When I had seen this hot love on the wing--
    As I perceived it, I must tell you that,
    Before my daughter told me--what might you,
    Or my dear majesty your queen here, think,
    If I had play'd the desk or table-book,
    Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb,
    Or look'd upon this love with idle sight;
    What might you think? No, I went round to work,
    And my young mistress thus I did bespeak:
    'Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star;
    This must not be:' and then I precepts gave her,
    That she should lock herself from his resort,
    Admit no messengers, receive no tokens.
    Which done, she took the fruits of my advice;
    And he, repulsed--a short tale to make--
    Fell into a sadness, then into a fast,
    Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness,
    Thence to a lightness, and, by this declension,
    Into the madness wherein now he raves,
    And all we mourn for.

  • Do you think 'tis this?

  • It may be, very likely.

  • Hath there been such a time--I'd fain know that--
    That I have positively said 'Tis so,'
    When it proved otherwise?

  • Pointing to his head and shoulder
    Take this from this, if this be otherwise:
    If circumstances lead me, I will find
    Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed
    Within the centre.

  • How may we try it further?

  • You know, sometimes he walks four hours together
    Here in the lobby.

  • At such a time I'll loose my daughter to him:
    Be you and I behind an arras then;
    Mark the encounter: if he love her not
    And be not from his reason fall'n thereon,
    Let me be no assistant for a state,
    But keep a farm and carters.

  • But, look, where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.

  • Away, I do beseech you, both away:
    I'll board him presently.

    Enter HAMLET, reading
    O, give me leave:
    How does my good Lord Hamlet?

  • Well, God-a-mercy.

  • Do you know me, my lord?

  • Excellent well; you are a fishmonger.

  • Then I would you were so honest a man.

  • Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be
    one man picked out of ten thousand.

  • That's very true, my lord.

  • For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a
    god kissing carrion,--Have you a daughter?

  • Let her not walk i' the sun: conception is a
    blessing: but not as your daughter may conceive.
    Friend, look to 't.

  • Aside How say you by that? Still harping on my
    daughter: yet he knew me not at first; he said I
    was a fishmonger: he is far gone, far gone: and
    truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for
    love; very near this. I'll speak to him again.
    What do you read, my lord?

  • Words, words, words.

  • What is the matter, my lord?

  • I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.

  • Slanders, sir: for the satirical rogue says here
    that old men have grey beards, that their faces are
    wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and
    plum-tree gum and that they have a plentiful lack of
    wit, together with most weak hams: all which, sir,
    though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet
    I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down, for
    yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if like a crab
    you could go backward.

  • Aside Though this be madness, yet there is method
    in 't. Will you walk out of the air, my lord?

  • Indeed, that is out o' the air.
    How pregnant sometimes his replies are! a happiness
    that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity
    could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will
    leave him, and suddenly contrive the means of
    meeting between him and my daughter.--My honourable
    lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you.

  • You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will
    more willingly part withal: except my life, except
    my life, except my life.

  • Fare you well, my lord.

  • These tedious old fools!


  • You go to seek the Lord Hamlet; there he is.

  • To POLONIUS God save you, sir!


  • My excellent good friends! How dost thou,
    Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do ye both?

  • As the indifferent children of the earth.

  • Happy, in that we are not over-happy;
    On fortune's cap we are not the very button.

  • Nor the soles of her shoe?

  • Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of
    her favours?

  • 'Faith, her privates we.

  • In the secret parts of fortune? O, most true; she
    is a strumpet. What's the news?

  • None, my lord, but that the world's grown honest.

  • Then is doomsday near: but your news is not true.
    Let me question more in particular: what have you,
    my good friends, deserved at the hands of fortune,
    that she sends you to prison hither?

  • Denmark's a prison.

  • Then is the world one.

  • A goodly one; in which there are many confines,
    wards and dungeons, Denmark being one o' the worst.

  • We think not so, my lord.

  • Why, then, 'tis none to you; for there is nothing
    either good or bad, but thinking makes it so: to me
    it is a prison.

  • Why then, your ambition makes it one; 'tis too
    narrow for your mind.

  • O God, I could be bounded in a nut shell and count
    myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I
    have bad dreams.

  • Which dreams indeed are ambition, for the very
    substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.

  • A dream itself is but a shadow.

  • Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a
    quality that it is but a shadow's shadow.

  • Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and
    outstretched heroes the beggars' shadows. Shall we
    to the court? for, by my fay, I cannot reason.

  • We'll wait upon you.

  • No such matter: I will not sort you with the rest
    of my servants, for, to speak to you like an honest
    man, I am most dreadfully attended. But, in the
    beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore?

  • To visit you, my lord; no other occasion.

  • Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I
    thank you: and sure, dear friends, my thanks are
    too dear a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is it
    your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come,
    deal justly with me: come, come; nay, speak.

  • What should we say, my lord?

  • Why, any thing, but to the purpose. You were sent
    for; and there is a kind of confession in your looks
    which your modesties have not craft enough to colour:
    I know the good king and queen have sent for you.

  • To what end, my lord?

  • That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, by
    the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of
    our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved
    love, and by what more dear a better proposer could
    charge you withal, be even and direct with me,
    whether you were sent for, or no?

  • Aside to GUILDENSTERN What say you?

  • Aside Nay, then, I have an eye of you.--If you
    love me, hold not off.

  • My lord, we were sent for.

  • I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation
    prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the king
    and queen moult no feather. I have of late--but
    wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all
    custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily
    with my disposition that this goodly frame, the
    earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most
    excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave
    o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted
    with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to
    me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
    What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!
    how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how
    express and admirable! in action how like an angel!
    in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the
    world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me,
    what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not
    me: no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling
    you seem to say so.

  • My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts.

  • Why did you laugh then, when I said 'man delights not me'?

  • To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, what
    lenten entertainment the players shall receive from
    you: we coted them on the way; and hither are they
    coming, to offer you service.

  • He that plays the king shall be welcome; his majesty
    shall have tribute of me; the adventurous knight
    shall use his foil and target; the lover shall not
    sigh gratis; the humourous man shall end his part
    in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose
    lungs are tickled o' the sere; and the lady shall
    say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt
    for't. What players are they?

  • Even those you were wont to take delight in, the
    tragedians of the city.

  • How chances it they travel? their residence, both
    in reputation and profit, was better both ways.

  • I think their inhibition comes by the means of the
    late innovation.

  • Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was
    in the city? are they so followed?

  • No, indeed, are they not.

  • How comes it? do they grow rusty?

  • Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace: but
    there is, sir, an aery of children, little eyases,
    that cry out on the top of question, and are most
    tyrannically clapped for't: these are now the
    fashion, and so berattle the common stages--so they
    call them--that many wearing rapiers are afraid of
    goose-quills and dare scarce come thither.

  • What, are they children? who maintains 'em? how are
    they escoted? Will they pursue the quality no
    longer than they can sing? will they not say
    afterwards, if they should grow themselves to common
    players--as it is most like, if their means are no
    better--their writers do them wrong, to make them
    exclaim against their own succession?

  • 'Faith, there has been much to do on both sides; and
    the nation holds it no sin to tarre them to
    controversy: there was, for a while, no money bid
    for argument, unless the poet and the player went to
    cuffs in the question.

  • O, there has been much throwing about of brains.

  • Do the boys carry it away?

  • Ay, that they do, my lord; Hercules and his load too.

  • It is not very strange; for mine uncle is king of
    Denmark, and those that would make mows at him while
    my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, an
    hundred ducats a-piece for his picture in little.
    'Sblood, there is something in this more than
    natural, if philosophy could find it out.

  • Flourish of trumpets within

  • There are the players.

  • Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands,
    come then: the appurtenance of welcome is fashion
    and ceremony: let me comply with you in this garb,
    lest my extent to the players, which, I tell you,
    must show fairly outward, should more appear like
    entertainment than yours. You are welcome: but my
    uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.

  • In what, my dear lord?

  • I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is
    southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.

  • Enter POLONIUS

  • Well be with you, gentlemen!

  • Hark you, Guildenstern; and you too: at each ear a
    hearer: that great baby you see there is not yet
    out of his swaddling-clouts.

  • Happily he's the second time come to them; for they
    say an old man is twice a child.

  • I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players;
    mark it. You say right, sir: o' Monday morning;
    'twas so indeed.

  • My lord, I have news to tell you.

  • My lord, I have news to tell you.
    When Roscius was an actor in Rome,--

  • The actors are come hither, my lord.

  • Then came each actor on his ass,--

  • The best actors in the world, either for tragedy,
    comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical,
    historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-
    comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or
    poem unlimited: Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor
    Plautus too light. For the law of writ and the
    liberty, these are the only men.

  • O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou!

  • What a treasure had he, my lord?

  • Why,
    'One fair daughter and no more,
    The which he loved passing well.'

  • Aside Still on my daughter.

  • Am I not i' the right, old Jephthah?

  • If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter
    that I love passing well.

  • Nay, that follows not.

  • What follows, then, my lord?

  • Why,
    'As by lot, God wot,'
    and then, you know,
    'It came to pass, as most like it was,'--
    the first row of the pious chanson will show you
    more; for look, where my abridgement comes.
    Enter four or five Players
    You are welcome, masters; welcome, all. I am glad
    to see thee well. Welcome, good friends. O, my old
    friend! thy face is valenced since I saw thee last:
    comest thou to beard me in Denmark? What, my young
    lady and mistress! By'r lady, your ladyship is
    nearer to heaven than when I saw you last, by the
    altitude of a chopine. Pray God, your voice, like
    apiece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within the
    ring. Masters, you are all welcome. We'll e'en
    to't like French falconers, fly at any thing we see:
    we'll have a speech straight: come, give us a taste
    of your quality; come, a passionate speech.

  • What speech, my lord?

  • I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was
    never acted; or, if it was, not above once; for the
    play, I remember, pleased not the million; 'twas
    caviare to the general: but it was--as I received
    it, and others, whose judgments in such matters
    cried in the top of mine--an excellent play, well
    digested in the scenes, set down with as much
    modesty as cunning. I remember, one said there
    were no sallets in the lines to make the matter
    savoury, nor no matter in the phrase that might
    indict the author of affectation; but called it an
    honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by very
    much more handsome than fine. One speech in it I
    chiefly loved: 'twas Aeneas' tale to Dido; and
    thereabout of it especially, where he speaks of
    Priam's slaughter: if it live in your memory, begin
    at this line: let me see, let me see--
    'The rugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast,'--
    it is not so:--it begins with Pyrrhus:--
    'The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms,
    Black as his purpose, did the night resemble
    When he lay couched in the ominous horse,
    Hath now this dread and black complexion smear'd
    With heraldry more dismal; head to foot
    Now is he total gules; horridly trick'd
    With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons,
    Baked and impasted with the parching streets,
    That lend a tyrannous and damned light
    To their lord's murder: roasted in wrath and fire,
    And thus o'er-sized with coagulate gore,
    With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus
    Old grandsire Priam seeks.'
    So, proceed you.

  • 'Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and
    good discretion.

  • 'Anon he finds him
    Striking too short at Greeks; his antique sword,
    Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls,
    Repugnant to command: unequal match'd,
    Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage strikes wide;
    But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword
    The unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium,
    Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top
    Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash
    Takes prisoner Pyrrhus' ear: for, lo! his sword,
    Which was declining on the milky head
    Of reverend Priam, seem'd i' the air to stick:
    So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood,
    And like a neutral to his will and matter,
    Did nothing.
    But, as we often see, against some storm,
    A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still,
    The bold winds speechless and the orb below
    As hush as death, anon the dreadful thunder
    Doth rend the region, so, after Pyrrhus' pause,
    Aroused vengeance sets him new a-work;
    And never did the Cyclops' hammers fall
    On Mars's armour forged for proof eterne
    With less remorse than Pyrrhus' bleeding sword
    Now falls on Priam.
    Out, out, thou strumpet, Fortune! All you gods,
    In general synod 'take away her power;
    Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel,
    And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven,
    As low as to the fiends!'

  • It shall to the barber's, with your beard. Prithee,
    say on: he's for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he
    sleeps: say on: come to Hecuba.

  • 'But who, O, who had seen the mobled queen--'

  • 'The mobled queen?'

  • That's good; 'mobled queen' is good.

  • 'Run barefoot up and down, threatening the flames
    With bisson rheum; a clout upon that head
    Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe,
    About her lank and all o'er-teemed loins,
    A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up;
    Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep'd,
    'Gainst Fortune's state would treason have
    But if the gods themselves did see her then
    When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport
    In mincing with his sword her husband's limbs,
    The instant burst of clamour that she made,
    Unless things mortal move them not at all,
    Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven,
    And passion in the gods.'

  • Look, whether he has not turned his colour and has
    tears in's eyes. Pray you, no more.

  • 'Tis well: I'll have thee speak out the rest soon.
    Good my lord, will you see the players well
    bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used; for
    they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the
    time: after your death you were better have a bad
    epitaph than their ill report while you live.

  • My lord, I will use them according to their desert.

  • God's bodykins, man, much better: use every man
    after his desert, and who should 'scape whipping?
    Use them after your own honour and dignity: the less
    they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty.
    Take them in.

  • Follow him, friends: we'll hear a play to-morrow.
    Exit POLONIUS with all the Players but the First
    Dost thou hear me, old friend; can you play the
    Murder of Gonzago?

  • We'll ha't to-morrow night. You could, for a need,
    study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, which
    I would set down and insert in't, could you not?

  • Very well. Follow that lord; and look you mock him
    Exit First Player
    My good friends, I'll leave you till night: you are
    welcome to Elsinore.

  • Ay, so, God be wi' ye;
    Now I am alone.
    O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
    Is it not monstrous that this player here,
    But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
    Could force his soul so to his own conceit
    That from her working all his visage wann'd,
    Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect,
    A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
    With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing!
    For Hecuba!
    What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
    That he should weep for her? What would he do,
    Had he the motive and the cue for passion
    That I have? He would drown the stage with tears
    And cleave the general ear with horrid speech,
    Make mad the guilty and appal the free,
    Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed
    The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I,
    A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak,
    Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
    And can say nothing; no, not for a king,
    Upon whose property and most dear life
    A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward?
    Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across?
    Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face?
    Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat,
    As deep as to the lungs? who does me this?
    'Swounds, I should take it: for it cannot be
    But I am pigeon-liver'd and lack gall
    To make oppression bitter, or ere this
    I should have fatted all the region kites
    With this slave's offal: bloody, bawdy villain!
    Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain!
    O, vengeance!
    Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave,
    That I, the son of a dear father murder'd,
    Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
    Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words,
    And fall a-cursing, like a very drab,
    A scullion!
    Fie upon't! foh! About, my brain! I have heard
    That guilty creatures sitting at a play
    Have by the very cunning of the scene
    Been struck so to the soul that presently
    They have proclaim'd their malefactions;
    For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
    With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players
    Play something like the murder of my father
    Before mine uncle: I'll observe his looks;
    I'll tent him to the quick: if he but blench,
    I know my course. The spirit that I have seen
    May be the devil: and the devil hath power
    To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps
    Out of my weakness and my melancholy,
    As he is very potent with such spirits,
    Abuses me to damn me: I'll have grounds
    More relative than this: the play 's the thing
    Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.