Hey, seeing as we couldn’t get the extract text for Tapor to work out for us, here is a copy of act two that can be uploaded to Tapor or Voyeur.
Act 2, Scene 1
A room in Plns’ house.
Enter PLNS and RNLDO.
Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.
I will, my lord.
You shall do marvellous wisely, good Reynaldo,
Before you visit him to make inquire
Of his behaviour.
My lord, I did intend it.
Marry, well said, very well said. Look you, sir,
Inquire me first what Danskers are in Paris,
And how, and who, what means, and where they keep,
What company, at what expense, and finding
By this encompassment and drift of question
That they do know my son, come you more nearer
Than your particular demands will touch it:
Take you, as ’twere some distant knowledge of him,
As thus, â€˜I know his father and his friends,
And in part himâ€™ â€“ do you mark this, Reynaldo?
Ay, very well, my lord.
â€˜And in part him,â€™ but you may say, â€˜not well:
But, if’t be he I mean, he’s very wild,
Addicted so and soâ€™, and there put on him
What forgeries you please. marry, none so rank
As may dishonour him â€“ take heed of that â€“
But, sir, such wanton, wild and usual slips
As are companions noted and most known
To youth and liberty.
As gaming, my lord?
Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing,
Quarrelling, drabbing â€“ you may go so far.
My lord, that would dishonour him.
‘Faith, as you may season it in the charge.
You must not put another scandal on him
That he is open to incontinency â€“
That’s not my meaning â€“ but breathe his faults so
That they may seem the taints of liberty,
The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind,
A savageness in unreclaimed blood
Of general assault.
But, my good lord â€“
Wherefore should you do this?
Ay, my lord,
I would know that.
Marry, sir, here’s my drift â€“
And, I believe, it is a fetch of wit â€“
You laying these slight sallies on my son
As ’twere a thing a little soiled with working,
Mark you, your party in converse (him you would
Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes
The youth you breathe of guilty, be assured
He closes with you in this consequence:
â€˜Good sirâ€™ (or so), or â€˜friendâ€™ or â€˜gentlemanâ€™,
According to the phrase or the addition
Of man and country.
Very good, my lord.
And then, sir, does ‘a this, ‘a does â€“
what was I about to say? By the mass, I was about to
say something! where did I leave?
At â€˜closes in the consequenceâ€™.
At â€˜closes in the consequenceâ€™, ay, marry.
He closes thus: â€˜I know the gentleman,
I saw him yesterday, or th’ other day,
Or then, or then, with such, or such; and, as you say
There was ‘a gaming; there o’ertook in’s rouse;
There falling out at tennisâ€™, or perchance
â€˜I saw him enter such a house of saleâ€™,
Videlicet a brothel, or so forth. See you now
Your bait of falsehood take this carp of truth,
And thus do we of wisdom and of reach,
With windlasses and with assays of bias,
By indirections find directions out:
So by my former lecture and advice
Shall you my son. You have me, have you not?
My lord, I have.
God buy ye; fare ye well.
Good my lord.
Observe his inclination in yourself.
I shall, my lord.
And let him ply his music.
Well, my lord.
How now, Ophelia, what’s the matter?
O, my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted.
With what, i’ the name of God?
My lord, as I was sewing in my closet
Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbraced,
No hat upon his head, his stockings fouled,
Ungartered and down-gyved to his ankle;
Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other,
And with a look so piteous in purport
As if he had been loosed out of hell
To speak of horrors, he comes before me.
Mad for thy love?
My lord, I do not know,
But truly I do fear it.
What said he?
He took me by the wrist and held me hard,
Then goes he to the length of all his arm
And with his other hand thus o’er his brow
He falls to such perusal of my face
As â€˜a would draw it. Long stayed he so;
At last, a little shaking of mine arm
And thrice his head thus waving up and down,
He raised a sigh so piteous and profound
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk
And end his being. That done, he lets me go
And with his head over his shoulder turned
He seemed to find his way without his eyes
(For out o’ doors he went without their helps)
And, to the last bended their light on me.
Come, go with me: I will go seek the king.
This is the very ecstasy of love,
Whose violent property fordoes itself
And leads the will to desperate undertakings
As oft as any passions under heaven
That does afflict our natures. I am sorry â€“
What, have you given him any hard words of late?
No, my good lord, but as you did command,
I did repel his letters and denied
His access to me.
That hath made him mad.
I am sorry that with better heed and judgement
I had not quoted him. I feared he did but trifle
And meant to wrack thee â€“ but, beshrew my jealousy â€“
By heaven it is as proper to our age
To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions
As it is common for the younger sort
To lack discretion. Come, go we to the king:
This must be known which, being kept close, might
More grief to hide than hate to utter love.
Act 2, Scene 2
A room in the castle.
Enter KNG, QUEEN, RSNCRZ, GLDSTN, and
Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
Moreover that we much did long to see you
The need we have to use you did provoke
Our hasty sending. Something have you heard
Of Hamlet’s transformation â€“ so call it
Sith nor thâ€™ exterior nor the inward man
Resembles that it was. What it should be
More than his father’s death, that thus hath put him
So much from thâ€™ understanding of himself
I cannot dream of. I entreat you both
That, being of so young days brought up with him
And sith so neighboured to his youth and haviour
That you vouchsafe your rest here in our Court
Some little time, so by your companies
To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather
So much as from occasion you may glean,
Whether aught to us unknown afflicts him thus
That opened lies within our remedy.
Good gentlemen, he hath much talked of you
And sure I am two men there is not living
To whom he more adheres. If it will please you
To show us so much gentry and good will
As to expend your time with us awhile
For the supply and profit of our hope,
Your visitation shall receive such thanks
As fits a king’s remembrance.
Both your majesties
Might by the sovereign power you have of us
Put your dread pleasures more into command
Than to entreaty.
But we both obey
And here give up ourselves in the full bent
To lay our service freely at your feet
To be commanded.
Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.
Thanks, Guildenstern, and gentle Rosencrantz.
And I beseech you instantly to visit
My too much changed son. Go, some of you
And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is.
Heavens make our presence and our practices
Pleasant and helpful to him.
Exeunt Rsncrz, Gldstn, and some Attendants.
Thâ€™ ambassadors from Norway, my good lord,
Are joyfully returned.
Thou still hast been the father of good news.
Have I, my lord? I assure my good liege
I hold my duty as I hold my soul,
Both to my God and to my gracious king;
And I do think, or else this brain of mine
Hunts not the trail of policy so sure
As it hath used to do, that I have found
The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy.
O, speak of that, that do I long to hear.
Give first admittance to thâ€™ ambassadors.
My news shall be the fruit to that great feast.
Thyself do grace to them and bring them in.
He tells me, my dear Gertrude, he hath found
The head and source of all your son’s distemper.
I doubt it is no other but the main â€“
His father’s death and our hasty marriage.
Well, we shall sift him.
Re-enter Plns, with VLTMND and CRNLS.
Welcome, my good friends.
Say, Voltimand, what from our brother Norway?
Most fair return of greetings and desires.
Upon our first he sent out to suppress
His nephew’s levies, which to him appeared
To be a preparation ‘gainst the Polack;
But, better looked into, he truly found
It was against your highness; whereat, grieved
That so his sickness, age and impotence
Was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests
On Fortinbras, which he, in brief obeys,
Receives rebuke from Norway and, in fine,
Makes vow before his uncle never more
To give thâ€™ assay of arms against your majesty.
Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy,
Gives him threescore thousand crowns in annual fee
And his commission to employ those soldiers
So levied (as before) against the Polack,
With an entreaty herein further shown
Giving a paper.
That it might please you to give quiet pass
Through your dominions for this enterprise
On such regards of safety and allowance
As therein are set down.
It likes us well,
And at our more considered time we’ll read,
Answer and think upon this business;
Meantime, we thank you for your well-took labour.
Go to your rest, at night we’ll feast together:
Most welcome home.
Exeunt Vltmnd and Crnls.
This business is well ended.
My liege, and madam, to expostulate
What majesty should be, what duty is,
Why day is day, night night, and time is time,
Were nothing but to waste night, day and time;
Therefore, brevity is the soul of wit
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes.
I will be brief: your noble son is mad.
Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,
What is’t but to be nothing else but mad?
But let that go.
More matter with less art.
Madam, I swear I use no art at all.
That he’s mad, ’tis true: ’tis true ’tis pity;
And pity ’tis ’tis true: a foolish figure!
But farewell it, for I will use no art.
Mad let us grant him then, and now remains
That we find out the cause of this effect â€“
Or rather say the cause of this defect,
For this effect defective comes by cause.
Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.Â Perpend,
I have a daughter â€” have while she is mine â€“
Who in her duty and obedience, mark,
Hath given me this. Now gather, and surmise.
To the celestial and my soul’s idol, the most
Beautified Ophelia â€” That’s an ill phrase, a
Vile phrase, â€˜beautifiedâ€™ is a vile phrase, but
You shall hear â€“ thus in
Her excellent white bosom, these, etc.
Came this from Hamlet to her?
Good madam, stay awhile; I will be faithful.
Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.
O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers. I have not art
to reckon my groans, but that I love thee best, O most best,
believe it. Adieu. Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst
this machine is to him. Hamlet.
This, in obedience, hath my daughter shown me;
And more about hath his solicitings
As they fell out, by time, by means and place,
All given to mine ear.
But how hath she
Received his love?
What do you think of me?
As of a man faithful and honourable.
I would fain prove so. But what might you think
When I had seen this hot love on the wing â€“
As I perceived it (I must tell you that)
Before my daughter told me â€” what might you,
Or my dear majesty your queen here, think
If I had played the desk or table-book,
Or given my heart a working mute and dumb,
Or looked upon this love with idle sight,
What might you think? No, I went round to work
And my young mistress thus I did bespeak:
â€˜Lord Hamlet is a prince out of thy star.
This must not be.â€™ and then I prescripts gave her
That she should lock herself from his resort,
Admit no messengers, receive no tokens;
Which done, she took the fruits of my advice,
And he, repelled, a short tale to make,
Fell into a sadness, then into a fast,
Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness
Thence to a lightness, and by this declension
Into the madness wherein now he raves,
And all we mourn for.
Do you think this?
It may be, very like.
Hath there been such a time â€“ I would fain know that â€“
That I have positively said â€˜Tis so
When it proved otherwise?
Not that I know.
Pointing to his head and shoulders
Take this from this if this be otherwise.
If circumstances lead me I will find
Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed
Within the centre.
How may we try it further?
You know, sometimes he walks four hours together
Here in the lobby?
So he does, indeed.
At such a time I’ll loose my daughter to him.
Be you and I behind an arras then,
Mark the encounter: if he love her not
And be not from his reason fallen thereon
Let me be no assistant for a state,
But keep a farm and carters.
We will try it.
But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.
Away, I do beseech you both, away.
I’ll board him presently.Â O, give me leave.
Exeunt King, Queen, and Attendants.
Enter HMLT, reading.
How does my good Lord Hamlet?
Do you know me, my lord?
Excellent well, you are a fishmonger.
Not I, my lord.
Then I would you were so honest a man.
Honest, my lord?
Ay, sir, to be honest as this world goes is to be
one man picked out of ten thousand.
That’s very true, my lord.
For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog,
being a good kissing carrion â€“ have you a daughter?
I have, my lord.
Let her not walk i’ thâ€™ sun: conception is a
blessing but as your daughter may conceive, Friend â€“
How say you by that? Still harping on
my daughter. Yet he knew me not at first, ‘a said I was a
fishmonger! ‘a is far gone; and truly in my youth I
suffered much extremity for love, very near this.
I’ll speak to him again. What do you read, my lord?
Words, words, words.
What is the matter, my lord?
I mean the matter that you read, my lord.
Slanders, sir. For the satirical rogue says here
that old men have grey beards, that their faces are
wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and plumtree
gum and that they have a plentiful lack of wit together
with most weak hams â€“ all which, sir, though I most
powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not
honesty to have it thus set down. For yourself, sir, shall
grow old as I am â€“ if like a crab you could go
Though this be madness, yet there is
method in’t. â€“ Will you walk out of the air, my lord?
Into my grave.
Indeed, that’s out of the air. How
pregnant sometimes his replies are â€“ a happiness that
often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could
not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him and
my daughter. â€“ My lord, I will take my leave of you.
You cannot take from me anything that I will
not more willingly part withal â€“ except my life, except
my life, except my life.
Fare you well, my lord.
These tedious old fools.
Enter RSNCRZ and GLDSTN.
You go to seek the Lord Hamlet? there he is.
Rsncrz [To Plns]
God save you, sir!
My honoured lord.
My most dear lord.
My excellent good friends. How dost thou,
Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do
As the indifferent children of the earth.
Happy, in that we are not ever happy.
On fortune’s cap we are not the very button.
Nor the soles of her shoe?
Neither, my lord.
Then you live about her waist, or in the middle
of her favours?
‘Faith, her privates we.
In the secret parts of fortune? O, most true â€“
she is a strumpet. What news?
None, my lord, but the world’s grown
Then is doomsday near â€“ but your news is not
true. But, in the beaten way of friendship, what make
you at Elsinore?
To visit you, my lord, no other occasion.
Beggar that I am, I am ever poor in thanks, but
I thank you, and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too
dear a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is it your own
inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, come, deal justly
with me. come, come. nay speak.
What should we say, my lord?
Anything, but to thâ€™ purpose. You were sent for,
and there is a kind of confession in your looks, which
your modesties have not craft enough to colour. I know
the good king and queen have sent for you.
To what end, my lord?
That you must teach me. But let me conjure
you, by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy
of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved
love, and by what more dear a better proposer can
charge you withal, be even and direct with me whether
you were sent for or no.
What say you?
Nay then, I have an eye of you. If you love me,
Hold not off.
My lord, we were sent for.
I will tell you why. so shall my anticipation
prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the King
and Queen moult no feather. I have of late, but
wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all
custom of exercises and, indeed, it goes so heavily with
my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth seems
to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy
the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament,
this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why it
appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent
congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man
– how noble in reason; how infinite in faculties, in form
and moving; how express and admirable in action;
how like an angel in apprehension; how like a god; the
beauty of the world; the paragon of animals. And yet to
me what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights
not me â€“ nor women neither, though by your smiling you
seem to say so.
My lord, there was no such stuff in my
Why did ye laugh then, when I said man
delights not me?
To think, my lord, if you delight not in
Man what lenten entertainment the players shall recieve
from you; we coted them on the way and hither are they
coming to offer you service.
He that plays the King shall be welcome â€“ his
majesty shall have tribute on me â€“ the Adventurous
Knight shall use his foil and target, the lover shall not
sigh gratis, the humorous man shall end his part in
peace, and the lady shall say her mind freely or the
blank verse shall halt for’t. What players are they?
Even those you were wont to take such
delight in, the tragedians of the city.
How chances it they travel? Their residence,
both in reputation and profit, was better both ways.
I think their inhibition comes by the
means of the late innovation.
Do they hold the same estimation they did
when I was in the city? Are they so followed?
No, indeed are they not.
It is not very strange, for my uncle is King of
Denmark, and those that would make mouths at him
while my father lived give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred
ducats a-piece for his picture in little. ‘Sblood, there is
something in this more than natural if philosophy
could find it out.
Flourish of trumpets within.
There are the players.
Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your
hands, come, then! Thâ€™ appurtenance of welcome is
fashion and ceremony. Let me comply with you in this
garb lest my extent to the players, which I tell you
must show fairly outwards, should more appear like
entertainment than yours. You are welcome. But my
uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.
In what, my dear lord?
I am but mad north-north-west. When the
wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.
Well be with you, gentlemen.
Hark you, Guildenstern, and you too â€“ at each
Ear a hearer. That great baby you see there is not yet out
of his swaddling clouts.
Happily he is the second time come to
them, for they say an old man is twice a child.
I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the
Players. Mark it. â€“ You say right, sir, o’ Monday
Morning, ’twas then indeed.
My lord, I have news to tell you.
My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius
was an actor in Rome â€“
The actors are come hither, my lord.
Upon my honour,
– Then came each actor on his ass.
The best actors in the world, either for
tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical,
historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem
unlimited. Seneca cannot be too heavy nor Plautus too
light for the law of writ and the liberty. These are the
O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst
What a treasure had he, my lord?
One fair daughter and no more,
The which he loved passing well.
Still on my daughter.
Am I not i’ thâ€™ right, old Jephthah?
If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a
daughter that I love passing well.
Nay, that follows not.
What follows then, my lord?
As by lot,
and then, you know,
â€œIt came to pass,
as most like it was.
The first row of the pious chanson will show you more,
for look where my abridgement comes.
Enter four or five Players.
You are welcome, masters, welcome all. I am glad to see
thee well. Welcome, good friends. O old friend, why
thy face is valanced since I saw thee last! Comâ€™st thou to
beard me in Denmark? What, my young lady and
mistress! By’r lady, your ladyship is nearer to heaven
than when I saw you last by the altitude of a chopine.
Pray God your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be
not cracked within the ring. Masters, you are all
welcome. We’ll e’en to’t like French falconers â€“ fly at
anything we see. We’ll have a speech straight. Come,
give us a taste of your quality. Come, a passionate
What speech, my good lord?
I heard thee speak me a speech once â€“ but it was
never acted,or, if it was, not above once,for the play I
remember pleased not the million, â€˜twas caviare to the
general. But it was, as I received it, and others whose
judgements in such matters cried in the top of mine, an
excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down
with as much modesty as cunning. I remember, one said
there were no sallets in the lines to make the matter
savoury nor no matter in the phrase that might indict
the author of affection, but called it an honest method,
as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more
handsome than fine. One speech in’t I chiefly loved â€“
‘t was Aeneas’ talk to Dido, and thereabout of it
especially when he speaks of Priam’s slaughter. If it live
in your memory begin at this line â€“ let me see, let me
The rugged Pyrrhus like thâ€™ Hyrcanian beast …
â€“ ‘Tis not so. It begins with Pyrrhus.
The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms,
Black as his purpose, did the night resemble
When he lay couched in thâ€™ ominous horse,
Hath now this dread and black complexion smeared
With heraldry more dismal, head to foot.
Now is he total gules, horridly tricked
With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons,
Baked and impasted with the parching streets
That lend a tyrannous and a damned light
To their lord’s murder; roasted in wrath and fire,
And thus o’ersized with coagulate gore,
With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus
Old grandsire Priam seeks.
So, proceed you.
‘Fore God, my lord, well spoken â€“ with good
accent and good discretion.
Anon he finds him,
Striking too short at Greeks. His antique sword,
Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls,
Repugnant to command. Unequal matched,
Pyrrhus at Priam drives, in rage strikes wide,
But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword
Thâ€™ unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium
Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top
Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash
Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear. For lo, his sword
Which was declining on the milky head
Of reverend Priam seemed i’ the air to stick.
So, as a painted tyrant Pyrrhus stood
And like a neutral to his will and matter,
But as we often see against some storm
A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still,
The bold winds speechless and the orb below
As hush as death, anon the dreadful thunder
Doth rend the region, so after Pyrrhus’ pause
A roused vengeance sets him new a-work
And never did the Cyclops’ hammers fall
On Mars’s armour, forged for proof eterne,
With less remorse than Pyrrhus’ bleeding sword
Now falls on Priam.
Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune! All you gods
In general synod take away her power,
Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel
And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven
As low as to the fiends.
This is too long.
It shall to the barber’s, with your beard. Prithee,
say on â€“ he’s for a jig, or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps
say on, come to Hecuba.
But who â€“ ah woe â€“ had seen the mobled queen â€“
â€˜The mobled queenâ€™!
â€“ Run barefoot up and down, threatening the flames
With bisson rheum, a clout upon that head
Where late the diadem stood and, for a robe,
About her lank and all â€“ o’erteemed loins,
A blanket in the alarm of fear caught up.
Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steeped,
‘Gainst Fortune’s state would treason have pronounced.
But if the gods themselves did see her then,
When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport
In mincing with his sword her husband limbs,
The instant burst of clamour that she made
(Unless things mortal move them not at all)
Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven
And passion in the gods.
Look where he has not turned his colour and
Has tears in’s eyes. â€“ Prithee, no more!
‘Tis well. I’ll have thee speak out the rest of this
soon. [to Plns] Good my lord, will you see the
players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well
used, for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of
the time: after your death you were better have a bad
epitaph than their ill report while you live.
My lord, I will use them according to their
God’s bodkin, man, much better! Use every
Man after his desert, and who shall scape whipping? Use
them after your own honour and dignity â€“ the less they
deserve the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in.
Follow him, friends. We’ll hear a play
Exit Plns with all the Players but the First.
Dost thou hear me, old
Friend? Can you play The Murder of Gonzago?
Ay, my lord.
We’ll ha’t to-morrow night. You could for need,
study a speech of some dozen lines, or sixteen lines,
which I would set down and insert in’t, could you not?
Ay, my lord.
Very well. Follow that lord â€“ and look you mock
Exit First Player.
My good friends, I’ll leave
you till night. You are welcome to Elsinore.
Good my lord.
Ay so, God buy to you.
Exeunt Rsncrz and Gldstn.
Now I am alone.
O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That from her working all the visage wanned
â€“ Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit â€“ and all for nothing â€“
What’s Hecuba to him, or he to her,
That he should weep for her? What would he do
Had he the motive and that for passion
That I have? He would drown the stage with tears
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech,
Make mad the guilty and appall the free,
Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed
The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak,
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing. No, not for a king
Upon whose property and most dear life
A damned defeat was made. Am I a coward?
Who calls me villain, breaks my pate across,
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face,
Tweaks me by the nose, gives me the lie i’ thâ€™ throat
As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this,
Ha? ‘Swounds, I should take it. For it cannot be
But I am pigeon-livered and lack gall
To make oppression bitter, or ere this
I should ha’ fatted all the region kites
With this slave’s offal â€“ bloody, bawdy villain,
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain.
Why, what an ass am I: This is most brave,
That I, the son of a dear murdered,
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
Must like a whore unpack my heart with words
And fall a-cursing like a very drab,
A stallion! Fie upon’t, foh! About, my brains!
Hum, I have heard
That guilty creatures sitting at a play
Have by the very cunning of the scene
Been struck so to the soul that presently
They have proclaimed their malefactions.
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ. I’ll have these players
Play something like the murder of my father
Before mine uncle. I’ll observe his looks;
I’ll tent him to the quick. If ‘a do blench
I know my course. The spirit that I have seen
May be a deâ€™il, and the deâ€™il hath power
Tâ€™ assume a pleasing shape. Yea, and perhaps
Out of my weakness and my melancholy,
As he is very potent with such spirits,
Abuses me to damn me! I’ll have grounds
More relative than this. The play’s the thing
Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.