The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, William Shakespeare [book recommendations based on other books txt] 📗

fix’d his eyes upon you?

Hor. Most constantly.

Ham. I would I had been there.

Hor. It would have much amaz’d you.

Ham. Very like, very like. Stay’d it long?

Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.

Both. Longer, longer.

Hor. Not when I saw’t.

Ham. His beard was grizzled-no?

Hor. It was, as I have seen it in his life, A sable silver’d.

Ham. I will watch tonight.

Perchance ‘twill walk again.

Hor. I warr’nt it will.

Ham. If it assume my noble father’s person, I’ll speak to it, though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto conceal’d this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still; And whatsoever else shall hap tonight, Give it an understanding but no tongue.

I will requite your loves. So, fare you well.

Upon the platform, ‘twixt eleven and twelve, I’ll visit you.

All. Our duty to your honour.

Ham. Your loves, as mine to you. Farewell.

Exeunt [all but Hamlet].

My father’s spirit-in arms? All is not well.

I doubt some foul play. Would the night were come!

Till then sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.

Exit.

 

Scene III.

Elsinore. A room in the house of Polonius.

 

Enter Laertes and Ophelia.

 

Laer. My necessaries are embark’d. Farewell.

And, sister, as the winds give benefit And convoy is assistant, do not sleep, But let me hear from you.

Oph. Do you doubt that?

Laer. For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour, Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood; A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent-sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.

Oph. No more but so?

Laer. Think it no more.

For nature crescent does not grow alone In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes, The inward service of the mind and soul Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now, And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch The virtue of his will; but you must fear, His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own; For he himself is subject to his birth.

He may not, as unvalued persons do,

Carve for himself, for on his choice depends The safety and health of this whole state, And therefore must his choice be circumscrib’d Unto the voice and yielding of that body Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you, It fits your wisdom so far to believe it As he in his particular act and place May give his saying deed; which is no further Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal.

Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain If with too credent ear you list his songs, Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open To his unmast’red importunity.

Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister, And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire.

The chariest maid is prodigal enough

If she unmask her beauty to the moon.

Virtue itself scopes not calumnious strokes.

The canker galls the infants of the spring Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d, And in the morn and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent.

Be wary then; best safety lies in fear.

Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.

Oph. I shall th’ effect of this good lesson keep As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother, Do not as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven, Whiles, like a puff’d and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own rede.

Laer. O, fear me not!

 

Enter Polonius.

 

I stay too long. But here my father comes.

A double blessing is a double grace;

Occasion smiles upon a second leave.

Pol. Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame!

The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, And you are stay’d for. There-my blessing with thee!

And these few precepts in thy memory

Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion’d thought his act.

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar: Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch’d, unfledg’d comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Bear’t that th’ opposed may beware of thee.

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man, And they in France of the best rank and station Are most select and generous, chief in that.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be;

For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

This above all-to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Farewell. My blessing season this in thee!

Laer. Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.

Pol. The time invites you. Go, your servants tend.

Laer. Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well What I have said to you.

Oph. ‘Tis in my memory lock’d,

And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

Laer. Farewell. Exit.

Pol. What is’t, Ophelia, he hath said to you?

Oph. So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.

Pol. Marry, well bethought!

‘Tis told me he hath very oft of late Given private time to you, and you yourself Have of your audience been most free and bounteous.

If it be so-as so ‘tis put on me,

And that in way of caution-I must tell you You do not understand yourself so clearly As it behooves my daughter and your honour.

What is between you? Give me up the truth.

Oph. He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders Of his affection to me.

Pol. Affection? Pooh! You speak like a green girl, Unsifted in such perilous circumstance.

Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?

Oph. I do not know, my lord, what I should think, Pol. Marry, I will teach you! Think yourself a baby That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay, Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly, Or (not to crack the wind of the poor phrase, Running it thus) you’ll tender me a fool.

Oph. My lord, he hath importun’d me with love In honourable fashion.

Pol. Ay, fashion you may call it. Go to, go to!

Oph. And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord, With almost all the holy vows of heaven.

Pol. Ay, springes to catch woodcocks! I do know, When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul Lends the tongue vows. These blazes, daughter, Giving more light than heat, extinct in both Even in their promise, as it is amaking, You must not take for fire. From this time Be something scanter of your maiden presence.

Set your entreatments at a higher rate Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet, Believe so much in him, that he is young, And with a larger tether may he walk

Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia, Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers, Not of that dye which their investments show, But mere implorators of unholy suits, Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds, The better to beguile. This is for all: I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth Have you so slander any moment leisure As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.

Look to’t, I charge you. Come your ways.

Oph. I shall obey, my lord.

Exeunt.

 

Scene IV.

Elsinore. The platform before the Castle.

 

Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus.

 

Ham. The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.

Hor. It is a nipping and an eager air.

Ham. What hour now?

Hor. I think it lacks of twelve.

Mar. No, it is struck.

Hor. Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.

A flourish of trumpets, and two pieces go off.

What does this mean, my lord?

Ham. The King doth wake tonight and takes his rouse, Keeps wassail, and the swagg’ring upspring reels, And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, The kettledrum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge.

Hor. Is it a custom?

Ham. Ay, marry, is’t;

But to my mind, though I am native here And to the manner born, it is a custom More honour’d in the breach than the observance.

This heavy-headed revel east and west Makes us traduc’d and tax’d of other nations; They clip us drunkards and with swinish phrase Soil our addition; and indeed it takes From our achievements, though perform’d at height, The pith and marrow of our attribute.

So oft it chances in particular men

That, for some vicious mole of nature in them, As in their birth,- wherein they are not guilty, Since nature cannot choose his origin,-

By the o’ergrowth of some complexion, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason, Or by some habit that too much o’erleavens The form of plausive manners, that these men Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, Being nature’s livery, or fortune’s star, Their virtues else-be they as pure as grace, As infinite as man may undergo-Shall in the general censure take corruption From that particular fault. The dram of e’il Doth all the noble substance often dout To his own scandal.

 

Enter Ghost.

 

Hor. Look, my lord, it comes!

Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us!

Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or charitable,

Thou com’st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee. I’ll call thee Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane. O, answer me?

Let me not burst in ignorance, but tell Why thy canoniz’d bones, hearsed in death, Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn’d,

Hath op’d his ponderous and marble jaws To cast thee up again. What may this mean That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel, Revisits thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous, and we fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition

With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?

Say, why is this? wherefore? What should we do?

Ghost beckons Hamlet.

Hor. It beckons you to go away with it, As if it some impartment did desire

To you alone.

Mar. Look with what courteous action

It waves you to a more removed ground.

But do not go with it!

Hor. No, by no means!

Ham. It will not speak. Then will I follow it.

Hor. Do not, my lord!

Ham. Why, what should be the fear?

I do not set my life at a pin’s fee;

And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself?

It waves me forth again. I’ll follow it.

Hor. What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff That beetles o’er his base into the sea, And there assume some other, horrible form Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason And draw you into madness? Think of it.

The very place puts toys of desperation, Without more motive, into every brain That looks so many fadoms to the sea

And hears it roar beneath.

Ham. It waves me still.

Go on. I’ll follow thee.

Mar. You shall not go, my lord.

Ham. Hold off