Hamlet William Shakespeare (love books to read .TXT) đ
- Author: William Shakespeare
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Baked and impasted with the parching streets,
That lend a tyrannous and damned light
To their lordâs murder: roasted in wrath and fire,
And thus oâer-sized with coagulate gore,
With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus
Old grandsire Priam seeks.â
So, proceed you.
Polonius âFore God, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and good discretion. First PlayerâAnon he finds him
Striking too short at Greeks; his antique sword,
Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls,
Repugnant to command: unequal matchâd,
Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage strikes wide;
But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword
The 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 Pyrrhusâ ear: for, lo! his sword,
Which was declining on the milky head
Of reverend Priam, seemâd iâ the air to stick:
So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood,
And like a neutral to his will and matter,
Did nothing.
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 Pyrrhusâ pause,
Aroused vengeance sets him new a-work;
And never did the Cyclopsâ hammers fall
On Marsâs armour forged for proof eterne
With less remorse than Pyrrhusâ 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!â
âRun 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 oâer-teemed loins,
A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up;
Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steepâd,
âGainst Fortuneâs 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 husbandâs 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.â
Ay, so, God be wiâ ye; Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 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 his visage wannâd,
Tears in his eyes, distraction inâs aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing!
For Hecuba!
Whatâs Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her? What would he do,
Had he the motive and the cue 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 appal 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 damnâd 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 iâ the throat,
As deep as to the lungs? who does me this?
Ha!
âSwounds, I should take it: for it cannot be
But I am pigeon-liverâd and lack gall
To make oppression bitter, or ere this
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slaveâs offal: bloody, bawdy villain!
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain!
O, vengeance!
Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave,
That I, the son of a dear father murderâd,
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 scullion!
Fie uponât! foh! About, my brain! 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 proclaimâd their malefactions;
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ. Iâll have these players
Play something like the murder of my father
Before mine uncle: Iâll observe his looks;
Iâll tent him to the quick: if he but blench,
I know my course. The spirit that I have seen
May be the devil: and the devil hath power
To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps
Out of my
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