Chapter 14
Part 14
HAMLET. O throw away the worser part of it, And live the purer with the other half. Good night. But go not to mine uncle’s bed. Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits evil, is angel yet in this, That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock or livery That aptly is put on. Refrain tonight, And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence. The next more easy; For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And either curb the devil, or throw him out With wondrous potency. Once more, good night, And when you are desirous to be bles’d, I’ll blessing beg of you. For this same lord [_Pointing to Polonius._] I do repent; but heaven hath pleas’d it so, To punish me with this, and this with me, That I must be their scourge and minister. I will bestow him, and will answer well The death I gave him. So again, good night. I must be cruel, only to be kind: Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. One word more, good lady.
QUEEN. What shall I do?
HAMLET. Not this, by no means, that I bid you do: Let the bloat King tempt you again to bed, Pinch wanton on your cheek, call you his mouse, And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses, Or paddling in your neck with his damn’d fingers, Make you to ravel all this matter out, That I essentially am not in madness, But mad in craft. ’Twere good you let him know, For who that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise, Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib, Such dear concernings hide? Who would do so? No, in despite of sense and secrecy, Unpeg the basket on the house’s top, Let the birds fly, and like the famous ape, To try conclusions, in the basket creep And break your own neck down.
QUEEN. Be thou assur’d, if words be made of breath, And breath of life, I have no life to breathe What thou hast said to me.
HAMLET. I must to England, you know that?
QUEEN. Alack, I had forgot. ’Tis so concluded on.
HAMLET. There’s letters seal’d: and my two schoolfellows, Whom I will trust as I will adders fang’d,— They bear the mandate, they must sweep my way And marshal me to knavery. Let it work; For ’tis the sport to have the enginer Hoist with his own petard, and ’t shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon. O, ’tis most sweet, When in one line two crafts directly meet. This man shall set me packing. I’ll lug the guts into the neighbour room. Mother, good night. Indeed, this counsellor Is now most still, most secret, and most grave, Who was in life a foolish prating knave. Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you. Good night, mother.
[_Exit Hamlet dragging out Polonius._]
ACT IV
SCENE I. A room in the Castle.
Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
KING. There’s matter in these sighs. These profound heaves You must translate; ’tis fit we understand them. Where is your son?
QUEEN. Bestow this place on us a little while.
[_To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who go out._]
Ah, my good lord, what have I seen tonight!
KING. What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet?
QUEEN. Mad as the sea and wind, when both contend Which is the mightier. In his lawless fit Behind the arras hearing something stir, Whips out his rapier, cries ‘A rat, a rat!’ And in this brainish apprehension kills The unseen good old man.
KING. O heavy deed! It had been so with us, had we been there. His liberty is full of threats to all; To you yourself, to us, to everyone. Alas, how shall this bloody deed be answer’d? It will be laid to us, whose providence Should have kept short, restrain’d, and out of haunt This mad young man. But so much was our love We would not understand what was most fit, But like the owner of a foul disease, To keep it from divulging, let it feed Even on the pith of life. Where is he gone?
QUEEN. To draw apart the body he hath kill’d, O’er whom his very madness, like some ore Among a mineral of metals base, Shows itself pure. He weeps for what is done.
KING. O Gertrude, come away! The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch But we will ship him hence, and this vile deed We must with all our majesty and skill Both countenance and excuse.—Ho, Guildenstern!
Re-enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
Friends both, go join you with some further aid: Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, And from his mother’s closet hath he dragg’d him. Go seek him out, speak fair, and bring the body Into the chapel. I pray you haste in this.
[_Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern._]
Come, Gertrude, we’ll call up our wisest friends, And let them know both what we mean to do And what’s untimely done, so haply slander, Whose whisper o’er the world’s diameter, As level as the cannon to his blank, Transports his poison’d shot, may miss our name, And hit the woundless air. O, come away! My soul is full of discord and dismay.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. Another room in the Castle.
Enter Hamlet.
HAMLET. Safely stowed.
ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN. [_Within._] Hamlet! Lord Hamlet!
HAMLET. What noise? Who calls on Hamlet? O, here they come.
Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
ROSENCRANTZ. What have you done, my lord, with the dead body?
HAMLET. Compounded it with dust, whereto ’tis kin.
ROSENCRANTZ. Tell us where ’tis, that we may take it thence, And bear it to the chapel.
HAMLET. Do not believe it.
ROSENCRANTZ. Believe what?
HAMLET. That I can keep your counsel, and not mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge—what replication should be made by the son of a king?
ROSENCRANTZ. Take you me for a sponge, my lord?
HAMLET. Ay, sir; that soaks up the King’s countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the King best service in the end: he keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.
ROSENCRANTZ. I understand you not, my lord.
HAMLET. I am glad of it. A knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear.
ROSENCRANTZ. My lord, you must tell us where the body is and go with us to the King.
HAMLET. The body is with the King, but the King is not with the body. The King is a thing—
GUILDENSTERN. A thing, my lord!
HAMLET. Of nothing. Bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. Another room in the Castle.
Enter King, attended.
KING. I have sent to seek him and to find the body. How dangerous is it that this man goes loose! Yet must not we put the strong law on him: He’s lov’d of the distracted multitude, Who like not in their judgement, but their eyes; And where ’tis so, th’offender’s scourge is weigh’d, But never the offence. To bear all smooth and even, This sudden sending him away must seem Deliberate pause. Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliance are reliev’d, Or not at all.
Enter Rosencrantz.
How now? What hath befall’n?
ROSENCRANTZ. Where the dead body is bestow’d, my lord, We cannot get from him.
KING. But where is he?
ROSENCRANTZ. Without, my lord, guarded, to know your pleasure.
KING. Bring him before us.
ROSENCRANTZ. Ho, Guildenstern! Bring in my lord.
Enter Hamlet and Guildenstern.
KING. Now, Hamlet, where’s Polonius?
HAMLET. At supper.
KING. At supper? Where?
HAMLET. Not where he eats, but where he is eaten. A certain convocation of politic worms are e’en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service,—two dishes, but to one table. That’s the end.
KING. Alas, alas!
HAMLET. A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.
KING. What dost thou mean by this?
HAMLET. Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar.
KING. Where is Polonius?
HAMLET. In heaven. Send thither to see. If your messenger find him not there, seek him i’ th’other place yourself. But indeed, if you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby.
KING. [_To some Attendants._] Go seek him there.
HAMLET. He will stay till you come.
[_Exeunt Attendants._]
KING. Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety,— Which we do tender, as we dearly grieve For that which thou hast done,—must send thee hence With fiery quickness. Therefore prepare thyself; The bark is ready, and the wind at help, Th’associates tend, and everything is bent For England.
HAMLET. For England?
KING. Ay, Hamlet.
HAMLET. Good.
KING. So is it, if thou knew’st our purposes.
HAMLET. I see a cherub that sees them. But, come; for England! Farewell, dear mother.
KING. Thy loving father, Hamlet.
HAMLET. My mother. Father and mother is man and wife; man and wife is one flesh; and so, my mother. Come, for England.
[_Exit._]
KING. Follow him at foot. Tempt him with speed aboard; Delay it not; I’ll have him hence tonight. Away, for everything is seal’d and done That else leans on th’affair. Pray you make haste.
[_Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern._]
And England, if my love thou hold’st at aught,— As my great power thereof may give thee sense, Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red After the Danish sword, and thy free awe Pays homage to us,—thou mayst not coldly set Our sovereign process, which imports at full, By letters conjuring to that effect, The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England; For like the hectic in my blood he rages, And thou must cure me. Till I know ’tis done, Howe’er my haps, my joys were ne’er begun.
[_Exit._]
SCENE IV. A plain in Denmark.
Enter Fortinbras and Forces marching.
FORTINBRAS. Go, Captain, from me greet the Danish king. Tell him that by his license, Fortinbras Craves the conveyance of a promis’d march Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous. If that his Majesty would aught with us, We shall express our duty in his eye; And let him know so.
CAPTAIN. I will do’t, my lord.
FORTINBRAS. Go softly on.
[_Exeunt all but the Captain._]
Enter Hamlet, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern &c.
HAMLET. Good sir, whose powers are these?
CAPTAIN. They are of Norway, sir.
HAMLET. How purpos’d, sir, I pray you?
CAPTAIN. Against some part of Poland.
HAMLET. Who commands them, sir?
CAPTAIN. The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras.
HAMLET. Goes it against the main of Poland, sir, Or for some frontier?
CAPTAIN. Truly to speak, and with no addition, We go to gain a little patch of ground That hath in it no profit but the name. To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it; Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.
HAMLET. Why, then the Polack never will defend it.
CAPTAIN. Yes, it is already garrison’d.
HAMLET. Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats Will not debate the question of this straw! This is th’imposthume of much wealth and peace, That inward breaks, and shows no cause without Why the man dies. I humbly thank you, sir.
CAPTAIN. God b’ wi’ you, sir.
[_Exit._]
ROSENCRANTZ. Will’t please you go, my lord?
HAMLET. I’ll be with you straight. Go a little before.
[_Exeunt all but Hamlet._]
How all occasions do inform against me, And spur my dull revenge. What is a man If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and godlike reason To fust in us unus’d. Now whether it be Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple Of thinking too precisely on th’event,— A thought which, quarter’d, hath but one part wisdom And ever three parts coward,—I do not know Why yet I live to say this thing’s to do, Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means To do’t. Examples gross as earth exhort me, Witness this army of such mass and charge, Led by a delicate and tender prince, Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff’d, Makes mouths at the invisible event, Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death, and danger dare, Even for an eggshell. Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour’s at the stake. How stand I then, That have a father kill’d, a mother stain’d, Excitements of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep, while to my shame I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough and continent To hide the slain? O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth.
[_Exit._]
SCENE V. Elsinore. A room in the Castle.
Enter Queen, Horatio and a Gentleman.
QUEEN. I will not speak with her.
GENTLEMAN. She is importunate, indeed distract. Her mood will needs be pitied.
QUEEN. What would she have?
GENTLEMAN. She speaks much of her father; says she hears There’s tricks i’ th’ world, and hems, and beats her heart, Spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in doubt, That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts, Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. ’Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.
QUEEN. Let her come in.
[_Exit Gentleman._]
To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss. So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
Enter Ophelia.
OPHELIA. Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark?
QUEEN. How now, Ophelia?
OPHELIA. [_Sings._] How should I your true love know From another one? By his cockle hat and staff And his sandal shoon.
QUEEN. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?
OPHELIA. Say you? Nay, pray you mark. [_Sings._] He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone, At his head a grass green turf, At his heels a stone.
QUEEN. Nay, but Ophelia—
OPHELIA. Pray you mark. [_Sings._] White his shroud as the mountain snow.
Enter King.
QUEEN. Alas, look here, my lord!
OPHELIA. [_Sings._] Larded all with sweet flowers; Which bewept to the grave did not go With true-love showers.
KING. How do you, pretty lady?
OPHELIA. Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table!
KING. Conceit upon her father.
OPHELIA. Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this: [_Sings._] Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day, All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose and donn’d his clothes, And dupp’d the chamber door, Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more.
KING. Pretty Ophelia!
OPHELIA. Indeed la, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t. [_Sings._] By Gis and by Saint Charity, Alack, and fie for shame! Young men will do’t if they come to’t; By Cock, they are to blame.
Quoth she, before you tumbled me, You promis’d me to wed. So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun, An thou hadst not come to my bed.
KING. How long hath she been thus?
OPHELIA. I hope all will be well. We must be patient. But I cannot choose but weep, to think they would lay him i’ th’ cold ground. My brother shall know of it. And so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night.
[_Exit._]
KING. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.
[_Exit Horatio._]
O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father’s death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions. First, her father slain; Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Of his own just remove; the people muddied, Thick, and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers For good Polonius’ death; and we have done but greenly In hugger-mugger to inter him. Poor Ophelia Divided from herself and her fair judgement, Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts. Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France, Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds, And wants not buzzers to infect his ear With pestilent speeches of his father’s death, Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d, Will nothing stick our person to arraign In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like to a murdering piece, in many places Gives me superfluous death.
[_A noise within._]
QUEEN. Alack, what noise is this?
KING. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door.
Enter a Gentleman.
What is the matter?
GENTLEMAN. Save yourself, my lord. The ocean, overpeering of his list, Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, O’erbears your offices. The rabble call him lord, And, as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, custom not known, The ratifiers and props of every word, They cry ‘Choose we! Laertes shall be king!’ Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds, ‘Laertes shall be king, Laertes king.’
QUEEN. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry. O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs.
[_A noise within._]
KING. The doors are broke.
Enter Laertes, armed; Danes following.
LAERTES. Where is this king?—Sirs, stand you all without.
Danes. No, let’s come in.
LAERTES. I pray you, give me leave.
DANES. We will, we will.
[_They retire without the door._]
LAERTES. I thank you. Keep the door. O thou vile king, Give me my father.
QUEEN. Calmly, good Laertes.
LAERTES. That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard; Cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot Even here between the chaste unsmirched brow Of my true mother.
KING. What is the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?— Let him go, Gertrude. Do not fear our person. There’s such divinity doth hedge a king, That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will.—Tell me, Laertes, Why thou art thus incens’d.—Let him go, Gertrude:— Speak, man.
LAERTES. Where is my father?
KING. Dead.
QUEEN. But not by him.
KING. Let him demand his fill.
LAERTES. How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with. To hell, allegiance! Vows, to the blackest devil! Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation. To this point I stand, That both the worlds, I give to negligence, Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d Most throughly for my father.
KING. Who shall stay you?
LAERTES. My will, not all the world. And for my means, I’ll husband them so well, They shall go far with little.
KING. Good Laertes, If you desire to know the certainty Of your dear father’s death, is’t writ in your revenge That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and foe, Winner and loser?
LAERTES. None but his enemies.
KING. Will you know them then?
LAERTES. To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms; And, like the kind life-rendering pelican, Repast them with my blood.
KING. Why, now you speak Like a good child and a true gentleman. That I am guiltless of your father’s death, And am most sensibly in grief for it, It shall as level to your judgement ’pear As day does to your eye.
DANES. [_Within._] Let her come in.
LAERTES. How now! What noise is that?
Re-enter Ophelia, fantastically dressed with straws and flowers.
O heat, dry up my brains. Tears seven times salt, Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye. By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight, Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! O heavens, is’t possible a young maid’s wits Should be as mortal as an old man’s life? Nature is fine in love, and where ’tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself After the thing it loves.
OPHELIA. [_Sings._] They bore him barefac’d on the bier, Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny And on his grave rain’d many a tear.— Fare you well, my dove!
LAERTES. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus.
OPHELIA. You must sing ‘Down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.’ O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward that stole his master’s daughter.
LAERTES. This nothing’s more than matter.
OPHELIA. There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.
LAERTES. A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted.
OPHELIA. There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you; and here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died. They say he made a good end. [_Sings._] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
LAERTES. Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself She turns to favour and to prettiness.
OPHELIA. [_Sings._] And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead, Go to thy death-bed, He never will come again.
His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll. He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan. God ha’ mercy on his soul.
And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God b’ wi’ ye.
[_Exit._]
LAERTES. Do you see this, O God?
KING. Laertes, I must commune with your grief, Or you deny me right. Go but apart, Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will, And they shall hear and judge ’twixt you and me. If by direct or by collateral hand They find us touch’d, we will our kingdom give, Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours To you in satisfaction; but if not, Be you content to lend your patience to us, And we shall jointly labour with your soul To give it due content.
LAERTES. Let this be so; His means of death, his obscure burial,— No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o’er his bones, No noble rite, nor formal ostentation,— Cry to be heard, as ’twere from heaven to earth, That I must call’t in question.
KING. So you shall. And where th’offence is let the great axe fall. I pray you go with me.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE VI. Another room in the Castle.
Enter Horatio and a Servant.
HORATIO. What are they that would speak with me?
SERVANT. Sailors, sir. They say they have letters for you.
HORATIO. Let them come in.
[_Exit Servant._]
I do not know from what part of the world I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet.
Enter Sailors.
FIRST SAILOR. God bless you, sir.
HORATIO. Let him bless thee too.
FIRST SAILOR. He shall, sir, and’t please him. There’s a letter for you, sir. It comes from th’ambassador that was bound for England; if your name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is.
HORATIO. [_Reads._] ‘Horatio, when thou shalt have overlooked this, give these fellows some means to the King. They have letters for him. Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the grapple I boarded them. On the instant they got clear of our ship, so I alone became their prisoner. They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy. But they knew what they did; I am to do a good turn for them. Let the King have the letters I have sent, and repair thou to me with as much haste as thou wouldst fly death. I have words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they much too light for the bore of the matter. These good fellows will bring thee where I am. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hold their course for England: of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell. He that thou knowest thine, HAMLET.’
Come, I will give you way for these your letters, And do’t the speedier, that you may direct me To him from whom you brought them.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE VII. Another room in the Castle.
Enter King and Laertes.
KING. Now must your conscience my acquittance seal, And you must put me in your heart for friend, Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear, That he which hath your noble father slain Pursu’d my life.
LAERTES. It well appears. But tell me Why you proceeded not against these feats, So crimeful and so capital in nature, As by your safety, wisdom, all things else, You mainly were stirr’d up.
KING. O, for two special reasons, Which may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinew’d, But yet to me they are strong. The Queen his mother Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,— My virtue or my plague, be it either which,— She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul, That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, I could not but by her. The other motive, Why to a public count I might not go, Is the great love the general gender bear him, Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, Would like the spring that turneth wood to stone, Convert his gyves to graces; so that my arrows, Too slightly timber’d for so loud a wind, Would have reverted to my bow again, And not where I had aim’d them.
LAERTES. And so have I a noble father lost, A sister driven into desperate terms, Whose worth, if praises may go back again, Stood challenger on mount of all the age For her perfections. But my revenge will come.
KING. Break not your sleeps for that. You must not think That we are made of stuff so flat and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger, And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more. I lov’d your father, and we love ourself, And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine—
Enter a Messenger.
How now? What news?
MESSENGER. Letters, my lord, from Hamlet. This to your Majesty; this to the Queen.
KING. From Hamlet! Who brought them?
MESSENGER. Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not. They were given me by Claudio. He receiv’d them Of him that brought them.
KING. Laertes, you shall hear them. Leave us.
[_Exit Messenger._]
[_Reads._] ‘High and mighty, you shall know I am set naked on your kingdom. Tomorrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes. When I shall, first asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasions of my sudden and more strange return. HAMLET.’
What should this mean? Are all the rest come back? Or is it some abuse, and no such thing?
LAERTES. Know you the hand?
KING. ’Tis Hamlet’s character. ‘Naked!’ And in a postscript here he says ‘alone.’ Can you advise me?
LAERTES. I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come, It warms the very sickness in my heart That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, ‘Thus diest thou.’
KING. If it be so, Laertes,— As how should it be so? How otherwise?— Will you be rul’d by me?
LAERTES. Ay, my lord; So you will not o’errule me to a peace.
KING. To thine own peace. If he be now return’d, As checking at his voyage, and that he means No more to undertake it, I will work him To an exploit, now ripe in my device, Under the which he shall not choose but fall; And for his death no wind shall breathe, But even his mother shall uncharge the practice And call it accident.
LAERTES. My lord, I will be rul’d; The rather if you could devise it so That I might be the organ.
KING. It falls right. You have been talk’d of since your travel much, And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality Wherein they say you shine. Your sum of parts Did not together pluck such envy from him As did that one, and that, in my regard, Of the unworthiest siege.
LAERTES. What part is that, my lord?
KING. A very riband in the cap of youth, Yet needful too, for youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it wears Than settled age his sables and his weeds, Importing health and graveness. Two months since Here was a gentleman of Normandy,— I’ve seen myself, and serv’d against, the French, And they can well on horseback, but this gallant Had witchcraft in’t. He grew unto his seat, And to such wondrous doing brought his horse, As had he been incorps’d and demi-natur’d With the brave beast. So far he topp’d my thought That I in forgery of shapes and tricks, Come short of what he did.
LAERTES. A Norman was’t?
KING. A Norman.
LAERTES. Upon my life, Lamord.
KING. The very same.
LAERTES. I know him well. He is the brooch indeed And gem of all the nation.
KING. He made confession of you, And gave you such a masterly report For art and exercise in your defence, And for your rapier most especially, That he cried out ’twould be a sight indeed If one could match you. The scrimers of their nation He swore had neither motion, guard, nor eye, If you oppos’d them. Sir, this report of his Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy That he could nothing do but wish and beg Your sudden coming o’er to play with him. Now, out of this,—
LAERTES. What out of this, my lord?
KING. Laertes, was your father dear to you? Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart?
LAERTES. Why ask you this?
KING. Not that I think you did not love your father, But that I know love is begun by time, And that I see, in passages of proof, Time qualifies the spark and fire of it. There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it; And nothing is at a like goodness still, For goodness, growing to a pleurisy, Dies in his own too much. That we would do, We should do when we would; for this ‘would’ changes, And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; And then this ‘should’ is like a spendthrift sigh That hurts by easing. But to the quick o’ th’ulcer: Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake To show yourself your father’s son in deed, More than in words?
LAERTES. To cut his throat i’ th’ church.
KING. No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize; Revenge should have no bounds. But good Laertes, Will you do this, keep close within your chamber. Hamlet return’d shall know you are come home: We’ll put on those shall praise your excellence, And set a double varnish on the fame The Frenchman gave you, bring you in fine together And wager on your heads. He, being remiss, Most generous, and free from all contriving, Will not peruse the foils; so that with ease, Or with a little shuffling, you may choose A sword unbated, and in a pass of practice, Requite him for your father.
LAERTES. I will do’t. And for that purpose I’ll anoint my sword. I bought an unction of a mountebank So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death This is but scratch’d withal. I’ll touch my point With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly, It may be death.
KING. Let’s further think of this, Weigh what convenience both of time and means May fit us to our shape. If this should fail, And that our drift look through our bad performance. ’Twere better not assay’d. Therefore this project Should have a back or second, that might hold If this did blast in proof. Soft, let me see. We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings,— I ha’t! When in your motion you are hot and dry, As make your bouts more violent to that end, And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping, If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck, Our purpose may hold there.
Enter Queen.
How now, sweet Queen?
QUEEN. One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, So fast they follow. Your sister’s drown’d, Laertes.
LAERTES. Drown’d! O, where?
QUEEN. There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoary leaves in the glassy stream. There with fantastic garlands did she make Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them. There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke, When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide, And mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up, Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes, As one incapable of her own distress, Or like a creature native and indued Unto that element. But long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death.
LAERTES. Alas, then she is drown’d?
QUEEN. Drown’d, drown’d.
LAERTES. Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears. But yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will. When these are gone, The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord, I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, But that this folly douts it.
[_Exit._]
KING. Let’s follow, Gertrude; How much I had to do to calm his rage! Now fear I this will give it start again; Therefore let’s follow.
[_Exeunt._]
ACT V
SCENE I. A churchyard.
Enter two Clowns with spades, &c.
FIRST CLOWN. Is she to be buried in Christian burial, when she wilfully seeks her own salvation?
SECOND CLOWN. I tell thee she is, and therefore make her grave straight. The crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.
FIRST CLOWN. How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence?
SECOND CLOWN. Why, ’tis found so.
FIRST CLOWN. It must be _se offendendo_, it cannot be else. For here lies the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an act hath three branches. It is to act, to do, and to perform: argal, she drowned herself wittingly.
SECOND CLOWN. Nay, but hear you, goodman delver,—
FIRST CLOWN. Give me leave. Here lies the water; good. Here stands the man; good. If the man go to this water and drown himself, it is, will he nill he, he goes,—mark you that. But if the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not himself. Argal, he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.
SECOND CLOWN. But is this law?
FIRST CLOWN. Ay, marry, is’t, crowner’s quest law.
SECOND CLOWN. Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o’ Christian burial.
FIRST CLOWN. Why, there thou say’st. And the more pity that great folk should have countenance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even Christian. Come, my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers: they hold up Adam’s profession.
SECOND CLOWN. Was he a gentleman?
FIRST CLOWN. He was the first that ever bore arms.
SECOND CLOWN. Why, he had none.
FIRST CLOWN. What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? The Scripture says Adam digg’d. Could he dig without arms? I’ll put another question to thee. If thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself—
SECOND CLOWN. Go to.
FIRST CLOWN. What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?
SECOND CLOWN. The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.
FIRST CLOWN. I like thy wit well in good faith, the gallows does well. But how does it well? It does well to those that do ill. Now, thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church; argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To’t again, come.
SECOND CLOWN. Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?
FIRST CLOWN. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.
SECOND CLOWN. Marry, now I can tell.
FIRST CLOWN. To’t.
SECOND CLOWN. Mass, I cannot tell.
Enter Hamlet and Horatio, at a distance.
FIRST CLOWN. Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating; and when you are asked this question next, say ‘a grave-maker’. The houses he makes last till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan; fetch me a stoup of liquor.
[_Exit Second Clown._]
[_Digs and sings._]
In youth when I did love, did love, Methought it was very sweet; To contract, O, the time for, a, my behove, O methought there was nothing meet.
HAMLET. Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making?
HORATIO. Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.
HAMLET. ’Tis e’en so; the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.
FIRST CLOWN. [_Sings._] But age with his stealing steps Hath claw’d me in his clutch, And hath shipp’d me into the land, As if I had never been such.
[_Throws up a skull._]
HAMLET. That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once. How the knave jowls it to th’ ground, as if ’twere Cain’s jawbone, that did the first murder! This might be the pate of a politician which this ass now o’er-offices, one that would circumvent God, might it not?
HORATIO. It might, my lord.
HAMLET. Or of a courtier, which could say ‘Good morrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord?’ This might be my lord such-a-one, that praised my lord such-a-one’s horse when he meant to beg it, might it not?
HORATIO. Ay, my lord.
HAMLET. Why, e’en so: and now my Lady Worm’s; chapless, and knocked about the mazard with a sexton’s spade. Here’s fine revolution, an we had the trick to see’t. Did these bones cost no more the breeding but to play at loggets with ’em? Mine ache to think on’t.
FIRST CLOWN. [_Sings._] A pickaxe and a spade, a spade, For and a shrouding-sheet; O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet.
[_Throws up another skull._]
HAMLET. There’s another. Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? Why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum. This fellow might be in’s time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries. Is this the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine pate full of fine dirt? Will his vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases, and double ones too, than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his lands will scarcely lie in this box; and must the inheritor himself have no more, ha?
HORATIO. Not a jot more, my lord.
HAMLET. Is not parchment made of sheep-skins?
HORATIO. Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too.
HAMLET. They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow.—Whose grave’s this, sir?
FIRST CLOWN. Mine, sir. [_Sings._] O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet.
HAMLET. I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t.
FIRST CLOWN. You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ’tis not yours. For my part, I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine.
HAMLET. Thou dost lie in’t, to be in’t and say it is thine. ’Tis for the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest.
FIRST CLOWN. ’Tis a quick lie, sir; ’t will away again from me to you.
HAMLET. What man dost thou dig it for?
FIRST CLOWN. For no man, sir.
HAMLET. What woman then?
FIRST CLOWN. For none neither.
HAMLET. Who is to be buried in’t?
FIRST CLOWN. One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she’s dead.
HAMLET. How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note of it, the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls his kibe.—How long hast thou been a grave-maker?
FIRST CLOWN. Of all the days i’ th’ year, I came to’t that day that our last King Hamlet o’ercame Fortinbras.
HAMLET. How long is that since?
FIRST CLOWN. Cannot you tell that? Every fool can tell that. It was the very day that young Hamlet was born,—he that is mad, and sent into England.
HAMLET. Ay, marry, why was he sent into England?
FIRST CLOWN. Why, because he was mad; he shall recover his wits there; or if he do not, it’s no great matter there.
HAMLET. Why?
FIRST CLOWN. ’Twill not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.
HAMLET. How came he mad?
FIRST CLOWN. Very strangely, they say.
HAMLET. How strangely?
FIRST CLOWN. Faith, e’en with losing his wits.
HAMLET. Upon what ground?
FIRST CLOWN. Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years.
HAMLET. How long will a man lie i’ th’earth ere he rot?
FIRST CLOWN. Faith, if he be not rotten before he die,—as we have many pocky corses nowadays that will scarce hold the laying in,—he will last you some eight year or nine year. A tanner will last you nine year.
HAMLET. Why he more than another?
FIRST CLOWN. Why, sir, his hide is so tann’d with his trade that he will keep out water a great while. And your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here’s a skull now; this skull hath lain in the earth three-and-twenty years.
HAMLET. Whose was it?
FIRST CLOWN. A whoreson, mad fellow’s it was. Whose do you think it was?
HAMLET. Nay, I know not.
FIRST CLOWN. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! A pour’d a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick’s skull, the King’s jester.
HAMLET. This?
FIRST CLOWN. E’en that.
HAMLET. Let me see. [_Takes the skull._] Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kiss’d I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chop-fallen? Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come. Make her laugh at that.—Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing.
HORATIO. What’s that, my lord?
HAMLET. Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this fashion i’ th’earth?
HORATIO. E’en so.
HAMLET. And smelt so? Pah!
[_Throws down the skull._]
HORATIO. E’en so, my lord.
HAMLET. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he find it stopping a bung-hole?
HORATIO. ’Twere to consider too curiously to consider so.
HAMLET. No, faith, not a jot. But to follow him thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus. Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam whereto he was converted might they not stop a beer-barrel? Imperious Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. O, that that earth which kept the world in awe Should patch a wall t’expel the winter’s flaw. But soft! but soft! aside! Here comes the King.
Enter priests, &c, in procession; the corpse of Ophelia, Laertes and Mourners following; King, Queen, their Trains, &c.
The Queen, the courtiers. Who is that they follow? And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken The corse they follow did with desperate hand Fordo it own life. ’Twas of some estate. Couch we awhile and mark.
[_Retiring with Horatio._]
LAERTES. What ceremony else?
HAMLET. That is Laertes, a very noble youth. Mark.
LAERTES. What ceremony else?
PRIEST. Her obsequies have been as far enlarg’d As we have warranties. Her death was doubtful; And but that great command o’ersways the order, She should in ground unsanctified have lodg’d Till the last trumpet. For charitable prayers, Shards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her. Yet here she is allowed her virgin rites, Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home Of bell and burial.
LAERTES. Must there no more be done?
PRIEST. No more be done. We should profane the service of the dead To sing sage requiem and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls.
LAERTES. Lay her i’ th’earth, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring. I tell thee, churlish priest, A minist’ring angel shall my sister be When thou liest howling.
HAMLET. What, the fair Ophelia?
QUEEN. [_Scattering flowers._] Sweets to the sweet. Farewell. I hop’d thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet maid, And not have strew’d thy grave.
LAERTES. O, treble woe Fall ten times treble on that cursed head Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense Depriv’d thee of. Hold off the earth a while, Till I have caught her once more in mine arms. [_Leaps into the grave._] Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, Till of this flat a mountain you have made, To o’ertop old Pelion or the skyish head Of blue Olympus.
HAMLET. [_Advancing._] What is he whose grief Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wand’ring stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane. [_Leaps into the grave._]
LAERTES. [_Grappling with him._] The devil take thy soul!
HAMLET. Thou pray’st not well. I prithee take thy fingers from my throat; For though I am not splenative and rash, Yet have I in me something dangerous, Which let thy wiseness fear. Away thy hand!
KING. Pluck them asunder.
QUEEN. Hamlet! Hamlet!
All. Gentlemen!
HORATIO. Good my lord, be quiet.
[_The Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave._]
HAMLET. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme Until my eyelids will no longer wag.
QUEEN. O my son, what theme?
HAMLET. I lov’d Ophelia; forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?
KING. O, he is mad, Laertes.
QUEEN. For love of God forbear him!
HAMLET. ’Swounds, show me what thou’lt do: Woul’t weep? woul’t fight? woul’t fast? woul’t tear thyself? Woul’t drink up eisel? eat a crocodile? I’ll do’t. Dost thou come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I. And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw Millions of acres on us, till our ground, Singeing his pate against the burning zone, Make Ossa like a wart. Nay, an thou’lt mouth, I’ll rant as well as thou.
QUEEN. This is mere madness: And thus awhile the fit will work on him; Anon, as patient as the female dove, When that her golden couplets are disclos’d, His silence will sit drooping.
HAMLET. Hear you, sir; What is the reason that you use me thus? I lov’d you ever. But it is no matter. Let Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.
[_Exit._]
KING. I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.
[_Exit Horatio._]
[_To Laertes_] Strengthen your patience in our last night’s speech; We’ll put the matter to the present push.— Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son. This grave shall have a living monument. An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; Till then in patience our proceeding be.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. A hall in the Castle.
Enter Hamlet and Horatio.
HAMLET. So much for this, sir. Now let me see the other; You do remember all the circumstance?
HORATIO. Remember it, my lord!
HAMLET. Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay Worse than the mutinies in the bilboes. Rashly, And prais’d be rashness for it,—let us know, Our indiscretion sometime serves us well, When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
HORATIO. That is most certain.
HAMLET. Up from my cabin, My sea-gown scarf’d about me, in the dark Grop’d I to find out them; had my desire, Finger’d their packet, and in fine, withdrew To mine own room again, making so bold, My fears forgetting manners, to unseal Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio, Oh royal knavery! an exact command, Larded with many several sorts of reasons, Importing Denmark’s health, and England’s too, With ho! such bugs and goblins in my life, That on the supervise, no leisure bated, No, not to stay the grinding of the axe, My head should be struck off.
HORATIO. Is’t possible?
HAMLET. Here’s the commission, read it at more leisure. But wilt thou hear me how I did proceed?
HORATIO. I beseech you.
HAMLET. Being thus benetted round with villanies,— Or I could make a prologue to my brains, They had begun the play,—I sat me down, Devis’d a new commission, wrote it fair: I once did hold it, as our statists do, A baseness to write fair, and labour’d much How to forget that learning; but, sir, now It did me yeoman’s service. Wilt thou know The effect of what I wrote?
HORATIO. Ay, good my lord.
HAMLET. An earnest conjuration from the King, As England was his faithful tributary, As love between them like the palm might flourish, As peace should still her wheaten garland wear And stand a comma ’tween their amities, And many such-like ‘as’es of great charge, That on the view and know of these contents, Without debatement further, more or less, He should the bearers put to sudden death, Not shriving-time allow’d.
HORATIO. How was this seal’d?
HAMLET. Why, even in that was heaven ordinant. I had my father’s signet in my purse, Which was the model of that Danish seal: Folded the writ up in the form of the other, Subscrib’d it: gave’t th’impression; plac’d it safely, The changeling never known. Now, the next day Was our sea-fight, and what to this was sequent Thou know’st already.
HORATIO. So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to’t.
HAMLET. Why, man, they did make love to this employment. They are not near my conscience; their defeat Does by their own insinuation grow. ’Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes Between the pass and fell incensed points Of mighty opposites.
HORATIO. Why, what a king is this!
HAMLET. Does it not, thinks’t thee, stand me now upon,— He that hath kill’d my king, and whor’d my mother, Popp’d in between th’election and my hopes, Thrown out his angle for my proper life, And with such cozenage—is’t not perfect conscience To quit him with this arm? And is’t not to be damn’d To let this canker of our nature come In further evil?
HORATIO. It must be shortly known to him from England What is the issue of the business there.
HAMLET. It will be short. The interim is mine; And a man’s life’s no more than to say ‘One’. But I am very sorry, good Horatio, That to Laertes I forgot myself; For by the image of my cause I see The portraiture of his. I’ll court his favours. But sure the bravery of his grief did put me Into a tow’ring passion.
HORATIO. Peace, who comes here?
Enter Osric.
OSRIC. Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark.
HAMLET. I humbly thank you, sir. Dost know this waterfly?
HORATIO. No, my good lord.
HAMLET. Thy state is the more gracious; for ’tis a vice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile; let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king’s mess; ’tis a chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt.
OSRIC. Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you from his Majesty.
HAMLET. I will receive it with all diligence of spirit. Put your bonnet to his right use; ’tis for the head.
OSRIC. I thank your lordship, ’tis very hot.
HAMLET. No, believe me, ’tis very cold, the wind is northerly.
OSRIC. It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed.
HAMLET. Methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion.
OSRIC. Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry,—as ’twere—I cannot tell how. But, my lord, his Majesty bade me signify to you that he has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter,—
HAMLET. I beseech you, remember,—
[_Hamlet moves him to put on his hat._]
OSRIC. Nay, in good faith; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is newly come to court Laertes; believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent differences, of very soft society and great showing. Indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card or calendar of gentry; for you shall find in him the continent of what part a gentleman would see.
HAMLET. Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you, though I know, to divide him inventorially would dizzy th’arithmetic of memory, and yet but yaw neither, in respect of his quick sail. But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article and his infusion of such dearth and rareness as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror and who else would trace him his umbrage, nothing more.
OSRIC. Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him.
HAMLET. The concernancy, sir? Why do we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath?
OSRIC. Sir?
HORATIO. Is’t not possible to understand in another tongue? You will do’t, sir, really.
HAMLET. What imports the nomination of this gentleman?
OSRIC. Of Laertes?
HORATIO. His purse is empty already, all’s golden words are spent.
HAMLET. Of him, sir.
OSRIC. I know you are not ignorant,—
HAMLET. I would you did, sir; yet in faith if you did, it would not much approve me. Well, sir?
OSRIC. You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is,—
HAMLET. I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in excellence; but to know a man well were to know himself.
OSRIC. I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the imputation laid on him, by them in his meed he’s unfellowed.
HAMLET. What’s his weapon?
OSRIC. Rapier and dagger.
HAMLET. That’s two of his weapons. But well.
OSRIC. The King, sir, hath wager’d with him six Barbary horses, against the which he has imponed, as I take it, six French rapiers and poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, and so. Three of the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal conceit.
HAMLET. What call you the carriages?
HORATIO. I knew you must be edified by the margin ere you had done.
OSRIC. The carriages, sir, are the hangers.
HAMLET. The phrase would be more german to the matter if we could carry cannon by our sides. I would it might be hangers till then. But on. Six Barbary horses against six French swords, their assigns, and three liberal conceited carriages: that’s the French bet against the Danish. Why is this all imponed, as you call it?
OSRIC. The King, sir, hath laid that in a dozen passes between you and him, he shall not exceed you three hits. He hath laid on twelve for nine. And it would come to immediate trial if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer.
HAMLET. How if I answer no?
OSRIC. I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial.
HAMLET. Sir, I will walk here in the hall. If it please his Majesty, it is the breathing time of day with me. Let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the King hold his purpose, I will win for him if I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits.
OSRIC. Shall I re-deliver you e’en so?
HAMLET. To this effect, sir; after what flourish your nature will.
OSRIC. I commend my duty to your lordship.
HAMLET. Yours, yours.
[_Exit Osric._]
He does well to commend it himself, there are no tongues else for’s turn.
HORATIO. This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head.
HAMLET. He did comply with his dug before he suck’d it. Thus has he,—and many more of the same bevy that I know the drossy age dotes on,— only got the tune of the time and outward habit of encounter; a kind of yeasty collection, which carries them through and through the most fanned and winnowed opinions; and do but blow them to their trial, the bubbles are out.
Enter a Lord.
LORD. My lord, his Majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who brings back to him that you attend him in the hall. He sends to know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes or that you will take longer time.
HAMLET. I am constant to my purposes, they follow the King’s pleasure. If his fitness speaks, mine is ready. Now or whensoever, provided I be so able as now.
LORD. The King and Queen and all are coming down.
HAMLET. In happy time.
LORD. The Queen desires you to use some gentle entertainment to Laertes before you fall to play.
HAMLET. She well instructs me.
[_Exit Lord._]
HORATIO. You will lose this wager, my lord.
HAMLET. I do not think so. Since he went into France, I have been in continual practice. I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart: but it is no matter.
HORATIO. Nay, good my lord.
HAMLET. It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gain-giving as would perhaps trouble a woman.
HORATIO. If your mind dislike anything, obey it. I will forestall their repair hither, and say you are not fit.
HAMLET. Not a whit, we defy augury. There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all. Since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is’t to leave betimes?
Enter King, Queen, Laertes, Lords, Osric and Attendants with foils &c.
KING. Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me.
[_The King puts Laertes’s hand into Hamlet’s._]
HAMLET. Give me your pardon, sir. I have done you wrong; But pardon’t as you are a gentleman. This presence knows, and you must needs have heard, How I am punish’d with sore distraction. What I have done That might your nature, honour, and exception Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. Was’t Hamlet wrong’d Laertes? Never Hamlet. If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away, And when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes, Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. Who does it, then? His madness. If’t be so, Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong’d; His madness is poor Hamlet’s enemy. Sir, in this audience, Let my disclaiming from a purpos’d evil Free me so far in your most generous thoughts That I have shot my arrow o’er the house And hurt my brother.
LAERTES. I am satisfied in nature, Whose motive in this case should stir me most To my revenge. But in my terms of honour I stand aloof, and will no reconcilement Till by some elder masters of known honour I have a voice and precedent of peace To keep my name ungor’d. But till that time I do receive your offer’d love like love, And will not wrong it.
HAMLET. I embrace it freely, And will this brother’s wager frankly play.— Give us the foils; come on.
LAERTES. Come, one for me.
HAMLET. I’ll be your foil, Laertes; in mine ignorance Your skill shall like a star i’ th’ darkest night, Stick fiery off indeed.
LAERTES. You mock me, sir.
HAMLET. No, by this hand.
KING. Give them the foils, young Osric. Cousin Hamlet, You know the wager?
HAMLET. Very well, my lord. Your Grace has laid the odds o’ the weaker side.
KING. I do not fear it. I have seen you both; But since he is better’d, we have therefore odds.
LAERTES. This is too heavy. Let me see another.
HAMLET. This likes me well. These foils have all a length?
[_They prepare to play._]
OSRIC. Ay, my good lord.
KING. Set me the stoups of wine upon that table. If Hamlet give the first or second hit, Or quit in answer of the third exchange, Let all the battlements their ordnance fire; The King shall drink to Hamlet’s better breath, And in the cup an union shall he throw Richer than that which four successive kings In Denmark’s crown have worn. Give me the cups; And let the kettle to the trumpet speak, The trumpet to the cannoneer without, The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to earth, ‘Now the King drinks to Hamlet.’ Come, begin. And you, the judges, bear a wary eye.
HAMLET. Come on, sir.
LAERTES. Come, my lord.
[_They play._]
HAMLET. One.
LAERTES. No.
HAMLET. Judgement.
OSRIC. A hit, a very palpable hit.
LAERTES. Well; again.
KING. Stay, give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine; Here’s to thy health.
[_Trumpets sound, and cannon shot off within._]
Give him the cup.
HAMLET. I’ll play this bout first; set it by awhile.
[_They play._]
Come. Another hit; what say you?
LAERTES. A touch, a touch, I do confess.
KING. Our son shall win.
QUEEN. He’s fat, and scant of breath. Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows. The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.
HAMLET. Good madam.
KING. Gertrude, do not drink.
QUEEN. I will, my lord; I pray you pardon me.
KING. [_Aside._] It is the poison’d cup; it is too late.
HAMLET. I dare not drink yet, madam. By and by.
QUEEN. Come, let me wipe thy face.
LAERTES. My lord, I’ll hit him now.
KING. I do not think’t.
LAERTES. [_Aside._] And yet ’tis almost ’gainst my conscience.
HAMLET. Come for the third, Laertes. You do but dally. I pray you pass with your best violence. I am afeard you make a wanton of me.
LAERTES. Say you so? Come on.
[_They play._]
OSRIC. Nothing neither way.
LAERTES. Have at you now.
[_Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuffling, they change rapiers, and Hamlet wounds Laertes._]
KING. Part them; they are incens’d.
HAMLET. Nay, come again!
[_The Queen falls._]
OSRIC. Look to the Queen there, ho!
HORATIO. They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord?
OSRIC. How is’t, Laertes?
LAERTES. Why, as a woodcock to my own springe, Osric. I am justly kill’d with mine own treachery.
HAMLET. How does the Queen?
KING. She swoons to see them bleed.
QUEEN. No, no, the drink, the drink! O my dear Hamlet! The drink, the drink! I am poison’d.
[_Dies._]
HAMLET. O villany! Ho! Let the door be lock’d: Treachery! Seek it out.
[_Laertes falls._]
LAERTES. It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain. No medicine in the world can do thee good. In thee there is not half an hour of life; The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, Unbated and envenom’d. The foul practice Hath turn’d itself on me. Lo, here I lie, Never to rise again. Thy mother’s poison’d. I can no more. The King, the King’s to blame.
HAMLET. The point envenom’d too! Then, venom, to thy work.
[_Stabs the King._]
OSRIC and LORDS. Treason! treason!
KING. O yet defend me, friends. I am but hurt.
HAMLET. Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane, Drink off this potion. Is thy union here? Follow my mother.
[_King dies._]
LAERTES. He is justly serv’d. It is a poison temper’d by himself. Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet. Mine and my father’s death come not upon thee, Nor thine on me.
[_Dies._]
HAMLET. Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee. I am dead, Horatio. Wretched Queen, adieu. You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That are but mutes or audience to this act, Had I but time,—as this fell sergeant, death, Is strict in his arrest,—O, I could tell you,— But let it be. Horatio, I am dead, Thou liv’st; report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied.
HORATIO. Never believe it. I am more an antique Roman than a Dane. Here’s yet some liquor left.
HAMLET. As th’art a man, Give me the cup. Let go; by Heaven, I’ll have’t. O good Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me. If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story.
[_March afar off, and shot within._]
What warlike noise is this?
OSRIC. Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland, To the ambassadors of England gives This warlike volley.
HAMLET. O, I die, Horatio. The potent poison quite o’er-crows my spirit: I cannot live to hear the news from England, But I do prophesy th’election lights On Fortinbras. He has my dying voice. So tell him, with the occurrents more and less, Which have solicited. The rest is silence.
[_Dies._]
HORATIO. Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. Why does the drum come hither?
[_March within._]
Enter Fortinbras, the English Ambassadors and others.
FORTINBRAS. Where is this sight?
HORATIO. What is it you would see? If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.
FORTINBRAS. This quarry cries on havoc. O proud death, What feast is toward in thine eternal cell, That thou so many princes at a shot So bloodily hast struck?
FIRST AMBASSADOR. The sight is dismal; And our affairs from England come too late. The ears are senseless that should give us hearing, To tell him his commandment is fulfill’d, That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. Where should we have our thanks?
HORATIO. Not from his mouth, Had it th’ability of life to thank you. He never gave commandment for their death. But since, so jump upon this bloody question, You from the Polack wars, and you from England Are here arriv’d, give order that these bodies High on a stage be placed to the view, And let me speak to th’ yet unknowing world How these things came about. So shall you hear Of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts, Of accidental judgements, casual slaughters, Of deaths put on by cunning and forc’d cause, And, in this upshot, purposes mistook Fall’n on the inventors’ heads. All this can I Truly deliver.
FORTINBRAS. Let us haste to hear it, And call the noblest to the audience. For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune. I have some rights of memory in this kingdom, Which now to claim my vantage doth invite me.
HORATIO. Of that I shall have also cause to speak, And from his mouth whose voice will draw on more. But let this same be presently perform’d, Even while men’s minds are wild, lest more mischance On plots and errors happen.
FORTINBRAS. Let four captains Bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage, For he was likely, had he been put on, To have prov’d most royally; and for his passage, The soldiers’ music and the rites of war Speak loudly for him. Take up the bodies. Such a sight as this Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss. Go, bid the soldiers shoot.
[_A dead march._]
[_Exeunt, bearing off the bodies, after which a peal of ordnance is shot off._]
THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH
Contents
ACT I Scene I. London. A Room in the Palace. Scene II. The same. An Apartment of Prince Henry’s. Scene III. The Same. A Room in the Palace.
ACT II Scene I. Rochester. An Inn-Yard. Scene II. The Road by Gads-hill. Scene III. Warkworth. A Room in the Castle. Scene IV. Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar’s Head Tavern.
ACT III Scene I. Bangor. A Room in the Archdeacon’s House. Scene II. London. A Room in the Palace. Scene III. Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar’s Head Tavern.
ACT IV Scene I. The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury. Scene II. A public Road near Coventry. Scene III. The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury. Scene IV. York. A Room in the Archbishop’s Palace.
ACT V Scene I. The King’s Camp near Shrewsbury. Scene II. The Rebel Camp. Scene III. Plain between the Camps. Scene IV. Another Part of the Field. Scene V. Another Part of the Field.
Dramatis Personæ
KING HENRY the Fourth. HENRY, PRINCE of Wales, son to the King. Prince John of LANCASTER, son to the King. Earl of WESTMORELAND. Sir Walter BLUNT. Thomas Percy, Earl of WORCESTER. Henry Percy, Earl of NORTHUMBERLAND. Henry Percy, surnamed HOTSPUR, his son. Edmund MORTIMER, Earl of March. Scroop, ARCHBISHOP of York. SIR MICHAEL, a friend to the archbishop of York. Archibald, Earl of DOUGLAS. Owen GLENDOWER. Sir Richard VERNON. Sir John FALSTAFF. POINS. GADSHILL. PETO. BARDOLPH. LADY PERCY, Wife to Hotspur. Lady Mortimer, Daughter to Glendower. Mrs. Quickly, Hostess in Eastcheap. Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, Carriers, Ostler, Messengers, Servant, Travellers and Attendants.
SCENE. England and Wales.
ACT I
SCENE I. London. A Room in the Palace.
Enter the King, Lord John of Lancaster, Earl of Westmoreland with others.
KING. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant, And breathe short-winded accents of new broils To be commenced in strands afar remote. No more the thirsty entrance of this soil Shall daub her lips with her own children’s blood, No more shall trenching war channel her fields, Nor bruise her flow’rets with the armed hoofs Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes, Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven, All of one nature, of one substance bred, Did lately meet in the intestine shock And furious close of civil butchery, Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks, March all one way, and be no more opposed Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies. The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife, No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends, As far as to the sepulchre of Christ— Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross We are impressed and engaged to fight— Forthwith a power of English shall we levy, Whose arms were molded in their mothers’ womb To chase these pagans in those holy fields Over whose acres walked those blessed feet Which fourteen hundred years ago were nailed For our advantage on the bitter cross. But this our purpose now is twelve month old, And bootless ’tis to tell you we will go; Therefore we meet not now. Then let me hear Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland, What yesternight our Council did decree In forwarding this dear expedience.
WESTMORELAND. My liege, this haste was hot in question, And many limits of the charge set down But yesternight, when all athwart there came A post from Wales loaden with heavy news, Whose worst was that the noble Mortimer, Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight Against the irregular and wild Glendower, Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken, A thousand of his people butchered, Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse, Such beastly shameless transformation, By those Welshwomen done, as may not be Without much shame retold or spoken of.
KING. It seems then that the tidings of this broil Brake off our business for the Holy Land.
WESTMORELAND. This, matched with other did, my gracious lord, For more uneven and unwelcome news Came from the North, and thus it did import: On Holy-rood day the gallant Hotspur there, Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald, That ever-valiant and approved Scot, At Holmedon met, where they did spend A sad and bloody hour; As by discharge of their artillery, And shape of likelihood, the news was told; For he that brought them, in the very heat And pride of their contention did take horse, Uncertain of the issue any way.
KING. Here is a dear and true-industrious friend, Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse, Stained with the variation of each soil Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours; And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news. The Earl of Douglas is discomfited; Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights, Balked in their own blood, did Sir Walter see On Holmedon’s plains; of prisoners Hotspur took Mordake, Earl of Fife and eldest son To beaten Douglas, and the Earl of Athol, Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith. And is not this an honourable spoil, A gallant prize? Ha, cousin, is it not?
WESTMORELAND. In faith, it is a conquest for a prince to boast of.
KING. Yea, there thou mak’st me sad, and mak’st me sin In envy that my Lord Northumberland Should be the father to so blest a son, A son who is the theme of honour’s tongue, Amongst a grove the very straightest plant, Who is sweet Fortune’s minion and her pride; Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him, See riot and dishonour stain the brow Of my young Harry. O, that it could be proved That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged In cradle-clothes our children where they lay, And called mine Percy, his Plantagenet! Then would I have his Harry, and he mine: But let him from my thoughts. What think you, coz, Of this young Percy’s pride? The prisoners, Which he in this adventure hath surprised To his own use he keeps, and sends me word I shall have none but Mordake, Earl of Fife.
WESTMORELAND. This is his uncle’s teaching, this is Worcester, Malevolent to you in all aspects, Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity.
KING. But I have sent for him to answer this; And for this cause awhile we must neglect Our holy purpose to Jerusalem. Cousin, on Wednesday next our Council we Will hold at Windsor, so inform the lords: But come yourself with speed to us again, For more is to be said and to be done Than out of anger can be uttered.
WESTMORELAND. I will, my liege.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. The same. An Apartment of Prince Henry’s.
Enter Prince Henry and Sir John Falstaff.
FALSTAFF. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?
PRINCE. Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-coloured taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.
FALSTAFF. Indeed, you come near me now, Hal, for we that take purses go by the moon and the seven stars, and not by Phœbus, he, that wand’ring knight so fair. And I prithee, sweet wag, when thou art king, as God save thy Grace—Majesty I should say, for grace thou wilt have none—
PRINCE. What, none?
FALSTAFF. No, by my troth, not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter.
PRINCE. Well, how then? Come, roundly, roundly.
FALSTAFF. Marry then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that are squires of the night’s body be called thieves of the day’s beauty: let us be Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon; and let men say we be men of good government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.
PRINCE. Thou sayest well, and it holds well too, for the fortune of us that are the moon’s men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the moon. As for proof now: a purse of gold most resolutely snatched on Monday night, and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning, got with swearing “Lay by” and spent with crying “Bring in”; now in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder, and by and by in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.
FALSTAFF. By the Lord, thou say’st true, lad. And is not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?
PRINCE. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?
FALSTAFF. How now, how now, mad wag? What, in thy quips and thy quiddities? What a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?
PRINCE. Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?
FALSTAFF. Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a time and oft.
PRINCE. Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?
FALSTAFF. No, I’ll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.
PRINCE. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch, and where it would not, I have used my credit.
FALSTAFF. Yea, and so used it that were it not here apparent that thou art heir apparent—But I prithee sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king? And resolution thus fubbed as it is with the rusty curb of old father Antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.
PRINCE. No, thou shalt.
FALSTAFF. Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I’ll be a brave judge.
PRINCE. Thou judgest false already, I mean thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.
FALSTAFF. Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humour, as well as waiting in the court, I can tell you.
PRINCE. For obtaining of suits?
FALSTAFF. Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. ’Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib cat or a lugged bear.
PRINCE. Or an old lion, or a lover’s lute.
FALSTAFF. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.
PRINCE. What sayest thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor-ditch?
FALSTAFF. Thou hast the most unsavoury similes, and art indeed the most comparative, rascalliest, sweet young prince. But, Hal, I prithee trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought. An old lord of the Council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir, but I marked him not, and yet he talked very wisely, but I regarded him not, and yet he talked wisely, and in the street too.
PRINCE. Thou didst well, for wisdom cries out in the streets and no man regards it.
FALSTAFF. O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeed able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal, God forgive thee for it. Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing, and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over. By the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain. I’ll be damned for never a king’s son in Christendom.
PRINCE. Where shall we take a purse tomorrow, Jack?
FALSTAFF. Zounds, where thou wilt, lad, I’ll make one. An I do not, call me villain and baffle me.
PRINCE. I see a good amendment of life in thee, from praying to purse-taking.
FALSTAFF. Why, Hal, ’tis my vocation, Hal, ’tis no sin for a man to labour in his vocation.
Enter Poins.
Poins!—Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a match. O, if men were to be saved by merit, what hole in hell were hot enough for him? This is the most omnipotent villain that ever cried “Stand!” to a true man.
PRINCE. Good morrow, Ned.
POINS. Good morrow, sweet Hal.—What says Monsieur Remorse? What says Sir John Sack-and-sugar? Jack, how agrees the devil and thee about thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good Friday last for a cup of Madeira and a cold capon’s leg?
PRINCE. Sir John stands to his word, the devil shall have his bargain, for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs. He will give the devil his due.
POINS. Then art thou damned for keeping thy word with the devil.
PRINCE. Else he had been damned for cozening the devil.
POINS. But, my lads, my lads, tomorrow morning, by four o’clock early at Gad’s Hill, there are pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses. I have visards for you all; you have horses for yourselves. Gadshill lies tonight in Rochester. I have bespoke supper tomorrow night in Eastcheap. We may do it as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of crowns. If you will not, tarry at home and be hanged.
FALSTAFF. Hear ye, Yedward, if I tarry at home and go not, I’ll hang you for going.
POINS. You will, chops?
FALSTAFF. Hal, wilt thou make one?
PRINCE. Who, I rob? I a thief? Not I, by my faith.
FALSTAFF. There’s neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee, nor thou cam’st not of the blood royal, if thou darest not stand for ten shillings.
PRINCE. Well then, once in my days I’ll be a madcap.
FALSTAFF. Why, that’s well said.
PRINCE. Well, come what will, I’ll tarry at home.
FALSTAFF. By the Lord, I’ll be a traitor then, when thou art king.
PRINCE. I care not.
POINS. Sir John, I prithee, leave the Prince and me alone. I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure, that he shall go.
FALSTAFF. Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion, and him the ears of profiting, that what thou speakest may move, and what he hears may be believed, that the true prince may, for recreation sake, prove a false thief, for the poor abuses of the time want countenance. Farewell, you shall find me in Eastcheap.
PRINCE. Farewell, thou latter spring! Farewell, All-hallown summer!
[_Exit Falstaff._]
POINS. Now, my good sweet honey lord, ride with us tomorrow. I have a jest to execute that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto, and Gadshill shall rob those men that we have already waylaid. Yourself and I will not be there. And when they have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head off from my shoulders.
PRINCE. But how shall we part with them in setting forth?
POINS. Why, we will set forth before or after them, and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail; and then will they adventure upon the exploit themselves, which they shall have no sooner achieved but we’ll set upon them.
PRINCE. Yea, but ’tis like that they will know us by our horses, by our habits, and by every other appointment, to be ourselves.
POINS. Tut, our horses they shall not see, I’ll tie them in the wood; our visards we will change after we leave them; and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the nonce, to immask our noted outward garments.
PRINCE. Yea, but I doubt they will be too hard for us.