Ham. Now, mother, what's the matter? Queen. Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. Ham. Mother, you have my father much offended. Queen. Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue. Ham. Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. Queen. Why, how now, Hamlet? Ham. What's the matter now? Queen. Have you forgot me? Ham. No, by the rood, not so! You are the Queen, your husband's brother's wife, And (would it were not so!) you are my mother. Queen. Nay, then I'll set those to you that can speak. Ham. Come, come, and sit you down. You shall not budge; You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you. Queen. What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murther me? Help, help, ho! Pol. [behind] What, ho! help, help, help! Ham. [draws] How now? a rat? Dead for a ducat, dead! [Makes a pass through the arras and] kills Polonius. Pol. [behind] O, I am slain! Queen. O me, what hast thou done? Ham. Nay, I know not. Is it the King? Queen. O, what a rash and bloody deed is this! Ham. A bloody deed- almost as bad, good mother, As kill a king, and marry with his brother. Queen. As kill a king? Ham. Ay, lady, it was my word.[Lifts up the arras and sees Polonius.] Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune. Thou find'st to be too busy is some danger. Leave wringing of your hands. Peace! sit you down And let me wring your heart; for so I shall If it be made of penetrable stuff; If damned custom have not braz'd it so That it is proof and bulwark against sense. Queen. What have I done that thou dar'st wag thy tongue In noise so rude against me? Ham. Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty; Calls virtue hypocrite; takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love, And sets a blister there; makes marriage vows As false as dicers' oaths. O, such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul, and sweet religion makes A rhapsody of words! Heaven's face doth glow; Yea, this solidity and compound mass, With tristful visage, as against the doom, Is thought-sick at the act. Queen. Ah me, what act, That roars so loud and thunders in the index? Ham. Look here upon th's picture, and on this, The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See what a grace was seated on this brow; Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself; An eye like Mars, to threaten and command; A station like the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill: A combination and a form indeed Where every god did seem to set his seal To give the world assurance of a man. This was your husband. Look you now what follows. Here is your husband, like a mildew'd ear Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes You cannot call it love; for at your age The heyday in the blood is tame, it's humble, And waits upon the judgment; and what judgment Would step from this to this? Sense sure you have, Else could you not have motion; but sure that sense Is apoplex'd; for madness would not err, Nor sense to ecstacy was ne'er so thrall'd But it reserv'd some quantity of choice To serve in such a difference. What devil was't That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind? Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight, Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all, Or but a sickly part of one true sense Could not so mope. O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell, If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones, To flaming youth let virtue be as wax And melt in her own fire. Proclaim no shame When the compulsive ardour gives the charge, Since frost itself as actively doth burn, And reason panders will. Queen. O Hamlet, speak no more! Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul, And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct. Ham. Nay, but to live In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, Stew'd in corruption, honeying and ****** love Over the nasty sty! Queen. O, speak to me no more! These words like daggers enter in mine ears. No more, sweet Hamlet! Ham. A murtherer and a villain! A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings; A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole And put it in his pocket! Queen. No more!
Enter the Ghost in his nightgown.
