Hamlet William Shakespeare (love books to read .TXT) đ
- Author: William Shakespeare
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Can serve my turn? âForgive me my foul murderâ?
That cannot be; since I am still possessâd
Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition and my queen.
May one be pardonâd and retain the offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world
Offenceâs gilded hand may shove by justice,
And oft âtis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law: but âtis not so above;
There is no shuffling, there the action lies
In his true nature; and we ourselves compellâd,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? what rests?
Try what repentance can: what can it not?
Yet what can it when one can not repent?
O wretched state! O bosom black as death!
O limed soul, that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe!
All may be well. Retires and kneels. Enter Hamlet. Hamlet
Now might I do it pat, now he is praying;
And now Iâll doât. And so he goes to heaven;
And so am I revenged. That would be scannâd:
A villain kills my father; and for that,
I, his sole son, do this same villain send
To heaven.
O, this is hire and salary, not revenge.
He took my father grossly, full of bread;
With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May;
And how his audit stands who knows save heaven?
But in our circumstance and course of thought,
âTis heavy with him: and am I then revenged,
To take him in the purging of his soul,
When he is fit and seasonâd for his passage?
No!
Up, sword; and know thou a more horrid hent:
When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage,
Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed;
At gaming, swearing, or about some act
That has no relish of salvation inât;
Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven,
And that his soul may be as damnâd and black
As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays:
This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. Exit.
Rising. My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:
Words without thoughts never to heaven go. Exit.
The Queenâs closet.
Enter Queen and Polonius. PoloniusHe will come straight. Look you lay home to him:
Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with,
And that your grace hath screenâd and stood between
Much heat and him. Iâll sconce me even here.
Pray you, be round with him.
Iâll warrant you,
Fear me not: withdraw, I hear him coming. Polonius hides behind the arras.
No, by the rood, not so:
You are the queen, your husbandâs brotherâs wife;
Andâ âwould it were not so!â âyou are my mother.
Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not budge;
You go not till I set you up a glass
Where you may see the inmost part of you.
What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder me?
Help, help, ho!
Nay, I know not:
Is it the king?
A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother,
As kill a king, and marry with his brother.
Ay, lady, âtwas my word. Lifts up the arras and discovers Polonius.
Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!
I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune;
Thou findâst to be too busy is some danger.
Leave wringing of your hands: peace! sit you down,
And let me wring your heart; for so I shall,
If it be made of penetrable stuff,
If damned custom have not brassâd it so
That it be proof and bulwark against sense.
What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue
In noise so rude against me?
Such an act
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty,
Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love
And sets a blister there, makes marriage-vows
As false as dicersâ oaths: O, such a deed
As from the body of contraction plucks
The very soul, and sweet religion makes
A rhapsody of words: heavenâs face doth glow;
Yea, this solidity and compound mass,
With tristful visage, as against the doom,
Is thought-sick at the act.
Ay me, what act,
That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?
Look here, upon this picture, and on this,
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
See, what a grace was seated on this brow;
Hyperionâs curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
A station like the herald Mercury
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man:
This was your husband. Look you now, what follows:
Here is your husband; like a mildewâd ear,
Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?
You cannot call it love; for at your age
The hey-day in the blood is tame, itâs humble,
And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment
Would step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have,
Else could you not have motion; but sure, that sense
Is apoplexâd; for madness would not err,
Nor sense to ecstasy was neâer so thrallâd
But it reserved some quantity of choice,
To serve in such a difference. What devil wasât
That thus hath cozenâd you at hoodman-blind?
Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,
Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,
Or but a sickly part of one
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