Glost. My hour is almost come
When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames
Must render up myself
Ham. Alas, poor ghost!
Ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hear
To what I shall unfold.
Ham. Speak, I am bound to hear.
Ghost. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt
Ghost. I am thy father's spirit;
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,
And for the day confin'd to fast in fire:
Till the foul crimes done in my days
of nature, Are burnt and purg'd away. But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house "
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,
Thy knotty and combined locks, to part
And each particular hair to stand on end
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine:
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, oh list!
If thou didst ever thy dear father love-
Ghost. Revenge his foul, and most unnatural murther.
Ghost. Murther most foul, as in the best it is.
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
Ham. Haste me to know it, that I with wings
as swift
As meditation, or the thoughts of love,
May fly to my revenge.
Ghost. I find thee apt;
And duller shonld'st thou be, than the fat weed That roots itself in ease on Lethe's wharf,
Would'st thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear;
'Tis giv'n out, that, sleeping in my orchard,
A serpent stung me. So the whole ear of Denmark
Is by a forged process of my death
Rankly abus'd: but know, thou noble youth,
The serpent that did sting thy father's life,
Now wears his crown.
Ham. Oh, my prophetic soul! my uncle! Ghost. Ay, that incestuous that adulterate
With witchcraft of his wit with trait'rous
(O wicked wit, and gifts, that have the power
So to seduce!) won to his shameful lust
The will of my most seeming virtuous Queen.
Oh, Hamlet, what a falling off was there!
But soft! methinks I scent the morning air-
Brief let me be sleeping within mine orchard,
My custom always in the afternoon
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole
With juice of cursed hebony in a phial,
And in the porches of mine ear did pour
The lep'rous distilment.-
Thus was I sleeping, by a brother's hand,
Of life, of crown, of Queen, at once bereft ;
Cut off ev'n in the blossoms of my
No reck'ning made! but sent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head!
Ham. Oh horrible! oh horrible! most horrible!
Ghost. If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not;
But howsoever thou pursu'st this act,
Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive
Against thy mother aught; leave her to heav'n
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once!
The glow worm shews the matin to be near
And 'gins to pale his ineffectual fire.
Adieu, adieu, adieu! Remember me.
Ham. Oh, all ye host of heav'n! oh earth! what
And shall I couple hell? of fie! hold, my heart!
And you, my sinews grow not instant old! But bear me stifly up. Remember thee!
Ay? thou poor ghost, while memory
In this distracted globe! Remember thee!
Yea, from the tablet of my memory
all trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,
That youth and observation copied there;
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmix'd with basser matter.
Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death. To be, or not to be?—that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?-To dieto sleep-
No more and by a sleep, to say, we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to :- -Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die-to sleep-
To sleep? perchance to dream ?-ay, there's the
rub!
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the whips and scorns o' th' time 9
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes;
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear
Το groan and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of something after death
(That undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns) puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all :
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And entreprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
Soliloquy of the King in Hamlet.
On! my offence is rank, it smells to heav'n,
It hath the primal, eldest curse upon't ;
A brother's murder-Pray I cannot :
Though inclination be as sharp as 'twill,
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent:
And like a man to double business bound
I stand in pause, where I shall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood?
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heav'ns
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy,
But to confront the visage of offence?
And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force,
To be forestalled ere we come to fall,
Or pardon'd being down?-Then I'll look up : My fault is past. But oh, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul mur der?
That cannot be, since I am still possess'd
Of those effects for which I did the murder
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardon'd, and retain th' offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice;
And oft 'tis seen, the wicked prize itself
Buys out the laws. But 'tis not so above.
There is no shuffling: there the action lies
In its true nature, and we ourselves compell'd
Ev'n to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? what rests?
Try what repentance can: What can it not?
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?
Oh wretched state! oh bosom black as death!
Oh limed soul, that, struggling to be free,
Art more engag'd! Help, angels! make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees and heart, with strings of
steel,
Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!
DESCEND, ye Nine ! descend and sing,
The breathing instruments inspire;
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre!
In a sadly-pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain :
Let the loud trumpet sound,
Till the roofs all around
The shrill echoes rebound :
While in more lengthen'd notes and slow
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers soft and clear
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder and yet louder rise,
And fill with spreading sounds the skies; Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats! Till, by degrees, remote and small,
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