Then thus she says: your behaviour hath struck her into amazement and admiration.

Ham.

O wonderful son, that can so stonish a mother!--But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother's admiration?

Ros.

She desires to speak with you in her closet ere you go to bed.

Ham.

We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us?

Ros.

My lord, you once did love me.

Ham.

And so I do still, by these pickers and stealers.

Ros.

Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? you do, surely, bar the door upon your own liberty if you deny your griefs to your friend.

Ham.

Sir, I lack advancement.

Ros.

How can that be, when you have the voice of the king himself for your succession in Denmark?

Ham.

Ay, sir, but 'While the gra.s.s grows'--the proverb is something musty.

[Re-enter the Players, with recorders.]

O, the recorders:--let me see one.--To withdraw with you:--why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil?

Guil.

O my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.

Ham.

I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe?

Guil.

My lord, I cannot.

Ham.

I pray you.

Guil.

Believe me, I cannot.

Ham.

I do beseech you.

Guil.

I know, no touch of it, my lord.

Ham.

'Tis as easy as lying: govern these ventages with your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.

Guil.

But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony; I have not the skill.

Ham.

Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compa.s.s; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

[Enter Polonius.]

G.o.d bless you, sir!

Pol.

My lord, the queen would speak with you, and presently.

Ham.

Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel?

Pol.

By the ma.s.s, and 'tis like a camel indeed.

Ham.

Methinks it is like a weasel.

Pol.

It is backed like a weasel.

Ham.

Or like a whale.

Pol.

Very like a whale.

Ham.

Then will I come to my mother by and by.--They fool me to the top of my bent.--I will come by and by.

Pol.

I will say so.

[Exit.]

Ham.

By-and-by is easily said.

[Exit Polonius.]

--Leave me, friends.

[Exeunt Ros, Guil., Hor., and Players.]

'Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn, and h.e.l.l itself breathes out Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on. Soft! now to my mother.-- O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom: Let me be cruel, not unnatural; I will speak daggers to her, but use none; My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites,-- How in my words somever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent!

[Exit.]

Scene III. A room in the Castle.

[Enter King, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.]

King.

I like him not; nor stands it safe with us To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you; I your commission will forthwith dispatch, And he to England shall along with you: The terms of our estate may not endure Hazard so near us as doth hourly grow Out of his lunacies.

Guil.

We will ourselves provide: Most holy and religious fear it is To keep those many many bodies safe That live and feed upon your majesty.

Ros.

The single and peculiar life is bound, With all the strength and armour of the mind, To keep itself from 'noyance; but much more That spirit upon whose weal depend and rest The lives of many. The cease of majesty Dies not alone; but like a gulf doth draw What's near it with it: it is a ma.s.sy wheel, Fix'd on the summit of the highest mount, To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things Are mortis'd and adjoin'd; which, when it falls, Each small annexment, petty consequence, Attends the boisterous ruin. Never alone Did the king sigh, but with a general groan.

King.

Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage; For we will fetters put upon this fear, Which now goes too free-footed.

Ros and Guil.

We will haste us.

[Exeunt Ros. and Guil.]

[Enter Polonius.]

Pol.

My lord, he's going to his mother's closet: Behind the arras I'll convey myself To hear the process; I'll warrant she'll tax him home: And, as you said, and wisely was it said, 'Tis meet that some more audience than a mother, Since nature makes them partial, should o'erhear The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege: I'll call upon you ere you go to bed, And tell you what I know.

King.

Thanks, dear my lord.

[Exit Polonius.]

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon't,-- A brother's murder!--Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: 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 heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offence?

And what's in prayer but this twofold force,-- To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up; My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder!-- 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 the 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 law; but 'tis not so above; There is no shuffling;--there the action lies In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'd, Even 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?

O wretched state! O bosom black as death!

O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engag'd! Help, angels! Make a.s.say: Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart, with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!