Hamlet (2000)

[bunniefuu]

I have of late,

wherefore I know not...

Iost all my mirth.

What a piece of work is a man.

How noble in reason,

how infinite in faculties.

In form, in moving,

how express and admirable.

In action, how like an ngel.

In apprehensin, how like a god.

The beauty of the worid,

the paragon of animals.

And yet to me...

what is this

quintessence of dust?

Though yet of Hamlet

our dear brother's death...

our memory be green

and that it is us befitted

to bear our heart in grief,

and our whole kingdom to be

contracted in one brow of woe.

Yet so far hath discretion

fought with nature

that we with wisest sorrow

think on him

together with remembrance

of ourselves.

Therefore our sometime sister,

now our Queen,

the imperial jointress

to this warlike state

have we, as 'twere,

with a defeated joy,

with an auspicious

and dropping eye,

with mirth and funeral,

and with dirge in marriage,

in equal scale,

weighing delight and dole,

taken to wife.

Nor have we herein

barred your better wisdoms

which have freely gone

with this affair along.

For all...

Our thanks.

Now follow that you know,

young Fortinbras,

holding a weak supposal

of our worth

or thinking by our late

dear brother's death

our state to be disjoint

and out of frame,

co-leagued with this

dream of his advantage,

he hath not failed to

pester us with message,

importing the surrender of

those lands

lost by his father,

with all bond of law

to our most valiant brother.

So much for him.

And now, Laertes,

what's the news with you?

The head is not more native to

the heart, the hand to the mouth,

than the throne of Denmark

to thy father.

What wouldst thou have, Laertes?

My dread lord, your leave

and favour to return to France,

from whence, though willing I come

to show my duty in your coronation,

now I must confess that duty done,

my thoughts bend again to France.

Have you your father's leave?

What says Polonius?

He has wrung from me by slow leave,

by laboursome petition

and at last upon his will

I sealed my hard consent.

I do beseech you

give him leave to go.

Take thy fair hour, Laertes.

Time be thine,

and thy best grace.

Spend it at thy will.

My cousin Hamlet, and my son.

How is it that the clouds

still hang on you?

Hamlet,

cast thy nighted colour off,

and let thine eye look like

a friend on Denmark.

Do not with veiled lids seek for

thy noble father in the dust.

Thou know'st 'tis common.

All that lives must die,

passing through nature to eternity.

Ay, madam, it is common.

If it be,

why seems it so

particular with thee?

Seems, madam?

Nay, it is.

I know not seems.

'Tis not alone my inky cloak,

good mother,

nor customary suits

of solemn black,

nor windy suspiration

of forced breath. No.

Nor the fruitful river in the eye

that can denote me truly.

These indeed seem.

They are actions

that a man might play.

But I have within

that passeth show

these but the trappings

and the suits of woe.

'Tis sweet and commendable

in your nature, Hamlet,

to give these mourning duties

to your father.

That father lost,

lost his,

and the survivor bound

in filial obligation for some term

to do obsequious sorrow.

But to persevere in condolement

is impious stubbornness.

'Tis unmanly grief.

It shows a will most incorrect

to heaven,

a heart unfortified,

a mind impatient.

For your intent on going back

to school in Wittenberg

is most retrograde

to our desire.

We beseech you to remain in

the care and comfort of our eye.

Let not thy mother

lose her prayers, Hamlet.

Stay with us, go not

to Wittenberg.

I shall in all my best

obey you, madam.

O that this too too solid flesh

would melt,

thaw and resolve itself

into a dew.

Or the Everlasting had not fixed

his canon against self slaughter.

O God, how weary, stale,

flat and unprofitable seem to me

all the uses of this worid.

'Tis an unweeded garden

that grows to seed.

Things rank and gross in nature

possess it merely.

That it should come to this.

But two months dead,

nay, not so much, not two.

So excellent a king, that was

to this, Hyperion to a satyr.

So loving to my mother that

he might not beteem the winds

visit her face too roughly.

She would hang on him as if

increase of appetite grew by

what it fed on, yet within a month,

I may not think on it.

Frailty, thy name is woman.

O little month,

or ere these shoes were old

with which she followed

my poor father's body,

like Niobe, all tears.

Why she, even she, O, God.

A beast that wants discourse of

reason would have mourned longer.

Married with my uncle,

my father's brother,

but no more like my father

than I to Hercules.

Within a month.

Ere yet the salt of most

unrighteous tears had left

the flushing in her galled eyes,

she married.

O most wicked speed,

to post with such dexterity

to incestuous sheets.

It is not,

nor it cannot come to good,

but break my heart

for I must hold my tongue.

What make you from Wittenberg?

Marcella.

My good lord.

I am very glad to see you.

Good even, sir.

But what, in faith,

make you from Wittenberg?

A truant disposition,

good my lord.

What is your affair in Elsinore?

I came to see

your father's funeral.

I prithee, do not mock me,

it was to see my mother's wedding.

Indeed, it followed hard upon.

Thrift, Horatio.

The funeral baked meats did

coldly furnish the marriage tables.

Would I have met my dearest foe

in Heaven

or ever I had seen that day.

My father.

Methinks I see my father.

Where, my lord?

In my mind's eye.

I saw him once.

He was a goodly king.

He was a man, take him for all,

I shall not see his like again.

I think I saw him,

yesternight.

Saw? Who?

My lord, the King, your father.

The King, my father?

Season your admiration for a while

with an attent ear

while I deliver upon witness of

this gentleman this marvel to you.

In the dead waste of the middle of

the night, the apparition comes.

Where was this?

Upon the platform where we watched.

'Tis here.

Did you not speak to it?

I did, but answer made it none.

Yet once, methought,

it lifted up its head,

like as if it would speak.

Stay, illusin.

If thou hast any sound or use

of voice, speak to me.

It is offended.

If there be good to be done

that may to thee do ease,

and grace to me, speak to me.

Speak! Speak!

I charge thee, speak.

'Tis very strange.

As I do live, my lord,

'tis true.

And we did think of it our duty

to let you know of it.

Indeed, indeed,

but this troubles me.

Hold you the watch again tonight?

I do, my lord.

What looked he, frowningly?

A countenance more in sorrow

than in anger.

And fixed his eyes upon you?

Most constantly.

How would I have been there.

I would have much amazed you.

I will watch tonight.

I will speak to it

though hell itself should

gape and bid me hold my peace.

And I pray you all,

if you have hitherto concealed

this sight, let it be

tenable in your silence still.

And what shall hap tonight,

give it understanding but no tongue.

I will require your loves.

So fare you well.

Upon on the platform,

twixt 11 and 12, I'll visit you.

Our duty to your honour.

Your loves as mine to you.

Farewell.

Would the night were come.

Till then, sit still my soul.

Foul deeds will rise,

though all the earth

o'erwhelm them to men's eyes.

Perhaps he loves you now,

and now no soil nor cautel

doth besmirch the virtue

of his will.

But you must fear.

His virtue weighed,

his will is not his own,

for he is subject to his birth.

He may not, as unvalued persons do,

carve for himself,

for on his choice depends

the health and safety of this state.

Therefore must his choice be

circumscribed unto the voice

of that body whereof he is head.

Then if he says he loves you,

it fits your wisdom to believe it

as he in his particular act

and place

may give his saying deed which is

no further than the main voice

of Denmark goes withal.

Then weigh what loss your

honour may sustain if with too...

credent ear

you list his songs,

or lose your heart.

Or your chaste treasure open to

his ummastered importunity.

Fear it, Ophelia.

Fear it, my dear sister.

Keep you in the rear

of your affection,

out of shot and danger of desire.

Best safety lies in fear.

Youth to itself rebels,

though none else near.

I shall the effect of

this good lesson keep,

as watchman to my heart.

But good my brother do not,

as some ungracious pastors do,

show me the steep and thorny

way to heaven

while like a puffed

and reckless libertine

himself the primrose path

of dalliance treads...

and recks not his own creed.

Fear me not.

I stay too long.

A double blessing

is a double grace.

Occasin smiles upon a second leave.

Yet here, Laertes?

Aboard, aboard for shame.

The wind sits in the shoulder

of your sail, and you stayed for?

My blessing with thee.

And these few precepts,

in thy memory look thou character.

Give thy thoughts no tongue,

nor unproportioned thought his act.

Be thou familiar,

but by no means vulgar.

Those friends thou hast,

and their adoption tried,

grapple them to thy soul

with hoops of steel.

But do not dull thy palm

with entertainment of each

new-hatched, unpledged comrade.

Beware of entrance to a quarrel,

but being in it,

bear it that the opposed

may beware of thee.

Give every man thy ear,

but few thy voice.

Take each man's censure,

but reserve thy judgement.

Costly thy habit

as thy purse can buy,

but not expressed in fancy.

Rich, not gaudy.

For the apparel

oft proclaims the man.

Neither a borrower

nor a lender be,

for loan oft loses

both itself and friend.

This above all,

to thine own self be true,

and it must follow,

as the night the day,

thou canst not be false to any man.

I humbly take my leave, my lord.

The time invites you. Go.

Farewell, Ophelia.

Remember well what I said to you.

Angels and ministers of grace

defend us!

Be thou a spirit of health

or goblin damned,

bring with thee airs of heaven

or blasts from hell,

thou com'st in such questionable

shape that I'll speak to thee.

Mark me.

I will.

My hour is almost come

when I to sulphurous and tormenting

flames must render up myself.

Alas, poor ghost.

Pity me not.

But lend thy serious hearing

to what I shall unfold.

Speak. I am bound to hear.

I am thy father's spirit,

doomed for a term to walk the night

and by day to fast in fires till

the foul crimes done in my days

of nature of are burnt and purged.

But that I am forbid to tell

the secrets of my prison house,

I could a tale unfold whose

lightest word would harrow thy soul,

freeze thy young blood,

make thy two eyes like stars

start from their spheres,

thy knotted and combined locks

to part,

and each to stand on end

like upon the fretful porcupine.

But this eternal blazon must not

be the ears of flesh and blood.

List, list, o list!

If thou did'st ever

thy dear father love.

O God!

Revenge his foul

and most unnatural m*rder.

m*rder?

m*rder most foul,

as in the best it is,

but this most foul,

strange, unnatural.

Now,

Hamlet, dear.

'Tis given out that

sleeping in my orchard,

a serpent stung me.

So the whole ear of Denmark

is by a forged process

of my death rankly abused.

But know, nobled youth, the serpent

that did sting thy father's life

now wears his crown.

My uncle!

Ay, that incestuous, adulterate

beast with witchcraft of his wit,

with traitorous gifts, wicked

gifts with the power to seduce,

won to his shameful lust

the will of

my most seeming-virtuous queen.

O, Hamlet, what a falling off

was there from me,

whose love was of a dignity that

it went hand in hand with

the vow I made to her in marriage.

And to decline upon a wretch

whose natural gifts were

poor to those of mine.

But soft,

methinks I scent the morning air.

Brief let me be.

Sleeping in my orchard,

my custom of the afternoon,

upon my secure hour thy uncle stole

with juice of cursed hebona

in a vial,

and in the porches of my ears

did pour the leprous distillment

whose effect holds such enmity

with the blood of man

that swift as quicksilver

it courses through the body

and with sudden vigour it curds

like eager droppings into milk,

the thin and wholesome blood.

So did it mine.

Thus was I, sleeping,

by a brother's hand...

unhouseled, disappointed,

no reckoning made,

but sent to my account with

all my imperfections on my head.

O horrible, horrible,

most horrible!

If thou hast nature in thee,

bear it not.

Let not the royal bed of Denmark

be a couch for luxury

and damned incest.

But howsoever thou pursuest

this act, taint not thy mind.

Nor let thy soul contrive

against thy mother.

Leave her to Heaven

and to those thorns

that in her bosom lodge,

to prick and sting her.

Fare thee well at once.

Remember me.

The time is out of joint.

O cursed spite,

that ever I was born

to set it right.

My lord.

What news, my lord?

O day and night,

but this is wondrous strange.

Therefore as a stranger

give him welcome.

There are more things

in heaven and earth, Horatio,

than are dreamt of

in our philosophy.

My fate cries out.

What is it, Ophelia,

he hath sent you?

So please you, something

touching the lord Hamlet.

Marry, well bethought.

What is between you?

Give me up the truth.

He hath, of late, made many

tenders of his affection to me.

Affection!

Think yourself a baby,

that you take these tenders for

true pay, which are not sterling.

Tender yourself more dearly.

He hath importuned me with

love in honourable fashion.

When the blood burns,

how prodigal the soul

doth lend the tongue vows.

These blazes, daughter,

given more light than heat,

extinct in both,

even in their promise

as it is a-making,

you must not take for fire.

I do not know what I should think.

From this time,

be scanter of your maiden presence.

Set your entreatments

at a higher rate,

than a command to parley.

The Lord Hamlet, believe in him

so much that he is young

and with a larger tether may he

walk than may be given you.

Do not believe his vows.

I would not, in plain terms,

from this time forth,

have you so slander

any moment leisure as to give

words or talk

with the Lord Hamlet.

Look to it.

I charge you.

We have the word "to be".

But what I propose s

the word "to Inter-be".

"Inter-be".

It s not possble to be alone,

to be by yourself.

You need other people

n order to be.

You need other bengs

n order to be.

Not only you need

father, mother,

but also uncle,

or brother, sster,

socety.

But you also need sunshne,

rver, ar, trees,

brds, elephants,

and so on.

So t s mpossble to be

by yourself, alone.

You have to "nter-be"

wth everyone and everythng else.

And therefore to be

means to "nter-be".

To the celestial

and my soul's idol...

the most beautified Ophelia.

Doubt that the stars are fire,

doubt that the sun doth move,

doubt truth to be a liar,

but never doubt my love.

To be or not to be.

To be or not to be.

So oft t chances

n partcular men

that for some vcous

mole of nature n them

or by some habt

that too much overleavens

the form of plausble manners,

that these men,

carryng, I say,

the stamp of one defect,

ther vrtues else they

as pure as grace,

shall n the general censure

take corrupton...

How goes my good Lord Hamlet?

Well, God-a-mercy.

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 worid goes,

s to one man of ten thousand.

That s very true, my lord.

Have you a daughter?

I have, my lord.

Let her not walk in the sun.

Conception is a blessing,

but as your daughter may conceive,

friend, look to it.

How say you by that?

Stll harpng on my daughter.

He s far gone.

And truly n my youth

I suffered much for love.

Will you go out into the air?

Into my grave.

My honourable lord,

I humbly take my leave of you.

You cannot take from me anything

I will not willingly part,

except my life.

Except my life.

Except my life.

Except my life.

My liege.

My liege, and madam.

To expostulate...

what majesty should be,

what duty is,

why day is day,

night, night,

and time is time,

where nothing but to waste...

night, day and time.

Therefore, since 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 it but...

to be nothing else but mad?

But let that go.

More matter, less art.

I swear I use no art at all.

That he is 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.

Now remains for us to find out

the cause of this effect.

Or rather the cause of this defect.

For this effect,

defective comes by cause.

Thus it remains,

and the remainder thus.

Perpend: I have a daughter,

have while she is mine,

who in her duty,

and obedience, mark,

hath given me this.

Gather now and surmise.

Came this from Hamlet to her?

"I have no art to reckon my groans.

I love thee best, O most best.

Every thought of thine,

ever more whist this machine

is to him, Hamlet."

This in obedience

hath my daughter shown to me.

And more above,

hath his solicitings

as they fell out by time, means

and place all given to my ear.

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 had I

seen this hot love on the wing,

as I perceived

before my daughter told me,

what might you or

my dear Majesty think

if I had 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:

"Lord Hamlet is a prince,

out of thy star.

This must not be."

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 declensin

into the madness

wherein now he raves,

and all we mourn for.

Do you think 'tis this?

It may be, very like.

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.

To be or not to be,

that is the question.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind

to suffer the slings and arrows

of outrageous fortune,

or to take arms against

a sea of troubles

and by opposing,

end them.

To die,

to sleep...

no more.

And by a sleep to say

we end the heartache

and the thousand natural shocks

the flesh is heir to.

'Tis a consummation

devoutly to be wished.

To die,

to sleep, perchance to dream.

There's the rub.

For in that sleep of death,

what dreams may come, when we

have shuffled off this

mortal coil, must give us pause.

There's the respect

that makes calamity

of so long a life.

For who could bear

the whips and scorns of time,

the proud man's contumely,

the insolence of office,

the law's delay,

the pangs of disprized love,

when he himself might

his own quietus make

with a bare bodkin?

Who would fardles bear,

to grunt and sweat

under a weary life

were it not the dread

of something after death?

The undiscovered country

to whose bourn no traveller returns

puzzles the will

and makes us rather bear

those ills we have

than fly to others we know not of.

And thus conscience

does make cowards of us all.

And thus the native hue

of resolution

is sicklied o'er with

the pale cast of thought

and enterprises of

great pitch and moment

in this regard

their currents turn awry

and lose the name of action.

My excellent good friend!

How dost thou, Guildenstern?

Ah, Rosencrantz!

Good lads, how do you both?

As the indifferent children

of the earth.

Happy in that

we are not overhappy.

On fortune's cap we are not

the very button.

- Nor the soles of her shoes?

- Neither, my lord.

What news?

None, my lord, but that

the worid's grown honest.

Then doomsday is near.

But your news is not true.

Let me question more in particular.

What have you my friends deserved

at the hands of fortune that

she has sent you to prison hither?

Prison, my lord?

Denmark is a prison.

Then the worid is one.

A goodly one, with confines,

wards and dungeons,

Denmark being one of the worst.

We think not so, my lord.

Well then 'tis none to you,

for their is neither good

nor bad but thinking makes it so.

To me it is a prison.

Your ambition makes it so.

'Tis too narrow for your mind.

O God, I could be

bound in a nutshell and count

myself king of infinite space.

Were it not that

I have bad dreams.

What make you here?

To visit you, my lord,

no other occasin.

Can you by no conference get from

him why he puts on this confusin

grating so harshly his days with

turbulent and dangerous lunacy?

He confesses he feel dstracted,

but from what cause

he wll 'a no means speak.

Nor do we fnd hm

forward to be sounded

but wth a crafty madness

keeps aloof when we would brng

hm to confess hs true state.

Did he receive you well?

Most lke a gentleman.

But forces hs dsposton.

Nggard of queston, but of

our demands most free n hs reply.

Thank you, Rosencrantz

and gentle Guildenstern.

Thank you, Guildenstern

and gentle Rosencrantz.

We lay our servce

freely at your feet.

O what a rogue

and peasant sl*ve am I.

Is it not monstrous

that this player here,

but in a fiction,

in a dream of passin,

could force his soul so

to his own conceit,

that from her working

all his visin waned,

his whole function suiting

with forms to his conceit?

And all for nothing.

What would be do,

had he the motive and cue

for passin that I have?

I've heard that guilty creatures,

sitting at a play

have by the cunning of the scene,

been struck so to the soul

that presently they have

proclaimed their malefactions.

For m*rder, though it hath

no tongue,

will speak with

most miraculous organ.

I know my course.

The spirit I have seen

may be a devil.

And the devil hath power

to assume a pleasing shape, yea,

and perhaps out of my weakness

and melancholy abuses 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.

'Tis most true

and he beseeched me

to entreat your majesties

to hear and see the matter.

With all my heart and it doth

content me to hear him so inclined.

Good gentlemen,

give him a further edge

and drive his purpose

into these delights.

We shall, my lord.

And for your part, Ophelia,

I do wish your beauties be

the happy cause

of Hamlet's wildness.

So shall I hope your virtues will

bring him to his wonted way again.

How does your honour?

I humbly thank you. Well.

I have remembrances of yours

I have longed to redeliver.

I pray you, receive them.

No, not I.

I never gave you aught.

My honoured lord,

you know right well you did.

And with words of so sweet a breath

that made these things more rich.

Their perfume lost, take them.

For to the noble mind,

rich gifts wax poor

when givers prove unkind.

There, my lord.

Are you honest?

Lord?

Are you fair?

What means your lordship?

I did love you once.

Indeed, you made me believe so.

You should not have believed me.

I loved you not.

I was the more deceived.

Get thee to a nunnery.

Why wouldst thou be

a breeder of sinners?

I am myself indifferent honest,

yet could accuse me of things,

better my mother had not borne me.

I am very proud,

revengeful, ambitious,

with more offences than I have

thought to put them in,

imagination to give them shape,

or time to act them in.

What should such

fellows as I do,

crawling between earth

and heaven?

We are errant knaves all,

believe none of us.

Where is thy father?

Let the doors

be shut upon him

that he play the fool nowhere

but in his own house!

Get thee to a nunnery!

Two messages.

If thou dost marry,

I'll gve thee ths plague

for thy dowry.

Be thou as chaste as ce,

as pure as snow,

thou shall not escape calumny.

Get thee to a nunnery.

Go! Farewell.

We shall have no more marrage!

Those that are marred already,

all but one,

shall lve.

The rest shall keep

as they are. To a nunnery, go.

Give me that man that is not

passin's sl*ve and I will

wear him in my heart's core,

in my heart of heart, as I do thee.

Tonight one scene comes near

the circumstances of which

I have told thee

of my father's death.

I pray thee, when thou seest

that act afoot, observe...

my uncle. If his occulted guilt

do not itself unkennel

in one speech,

it is a damned ghost we have seen.

Give him heedful note,

for I mine eyes

will rivet to his face

and after we will our judgements

join in censure of his seeming.

Well, my lord.

Get you a place. I must be idle.

Hamlet, come sit by me.

No, mother, here's metal

more attractive.

Lady, shall I sit in your lap?

No, my lord.

I mean, my head upon your lap.

Think you I meant country matters?

I think nothing, my lord.

Well that's a fair thought,

to lie between maid's legs.

What is, my lord?

Nothing.

You are merry, my lord.

What should a man do

but be merry?

Look how cheerful my mother looks

and my father died within 2 hours.

Nay, 'tis twice 2 months.

So long? Nay then,

let the Devil wear black,

for I'll have a suit of sables.

O heavens! Died 2 months ago

and not forgotten yet?

Then there's hope a great man's

memory may outlive half a year.

How fares our cousin Hamlet?

Excellent.

What means this, my lord?

It means mischief.

My lord.

Give me some light. Light!

Cry you with false fire?

Away!

My lord!

O good Horatio,

I'll take the ghost's word for

a thousand pounds. Didst perceive?

Very well, my lord.

- Upon the poisoning?

- I did well note.

Some must watch

while some must sleep.

Thus runs the worid away.

Good. My lord.

Hello, ths s Eartha Ktt.

Cats have nne lves,

but unfortunately

you only have one.

So buckle your seat belt

for safety.

Good my lord, vouchsafe me

a word with you.

The King, sir...

Ay, sir, what of him?

...is marvellous distempered.

With drink?

Good my lord, try to put

your discourse into some frame.

I'm tame. Pronounce.

The Queen, your mother,

in great affliction of spirit,

has sent me to you.

You're welcome.

Nay, my lord, this courtesy

is not of the right breed.

If it shall please you to

make me a wholesome answer.

I cannot.

What?

Make you a wholesome answer.

My wit's diseased.

Now is the very

witching time of night,

when churchyards yawn

and Hell itself breathes out

contagion into this worid.

Now could I drink hot blood

and do such bitter business as

the day would quake to look on.

I like him not, nor stands it safe

with us to let his madness range.

Therefore prepare you.

Your commissin

will forthwith dispatch and he

to England shall along with you.

We wll ourselves provde.

Most holy and relgous fear,

to keep those many bodes safe

that feed upon your majesty.

Never alone dd the Kng sgh

but wth a general groan.

Arm you, I pray you to

this speedy voyage.

For we will fetter this fear

which now goes too free-footed.

We wll haste us.

O, my offence is rank.

It smells to heaven.

It has the primal

eldest curse upon it.

What if this cursed hand were

thicker with brother's blood?

Is there rain enough in the sweet

heavens to wash it white as snow?

Forgive me my foul m*rder.

That cannot be,

for I still possess those effects

for which I did the m*rder.

My crown, mine own ambition,

my queen.

What then? What rests?

Try what repentance can.

What can it not?

My words fly up,

my thoughts remain below.

Words without thoughts

never to heaven go.

Look you lay home to him.

Tell him his pranks are

too broad to bear with,

and that Your Grace

hath screened and stood between

much heat and him.

Fear me not.

Mother!

I'll shroud me in here.

Pray you, be round with him.

Mother, what's the matter?

Hamlet, thou hast thy father

much offended.

Mother, you have my father

much offended.

You answer with an idle tongue.

You question with a wicked tongue.

Have you forgot me?

No, not so. You are the Queen,

your husband's brother's wife.

And would it were not so,

you are my mother.

Then I'll set those to you

that can speak.

Come sit you down!

You shall not budge.

Not till I set you up a glass

where you see inmost part of you.

What, thou wilt not m*rder me?

- Help!

- Help!

What hast thou done?

Nay, I know not.

Is it the King?

O what rash...

and bloody deed is this?

Almost as bad,

good mother...

as k*ll a king and marry

with his brother.

k*ll a king?

Ay, lady, it was my word.

Thou wretched, rash,

intruding fool, farewell.

I took thee for thy better.

Take thy fortune. Thou find'st

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.

What have I done?

Have you eyes?

You cannot call it love, for at

your age the blood is tame.

It's humble. It waits upon

the judgement.

O shame!

Where is thy blush?

To live in the rank sweat

of an enseamed bed,

honeying and making love

over the nasty sty!

No more!

Nay, a kept villain, a m*rder*r,

a king of shreds and patches!

No more.

How would you, gracious figure?

Do not chide your t*rd son.

Alas, he's mad.

Do not forget. This visitation

is but to whet

thy almost blunted purpose.

But look,

amazement on thy mother sits.

Step between her

and her fighting soul!

Speak to her, Hamlet.

How is it with you, lady?

Where on do you look?

On him! Look you

how pale he glares.

Do not look upon me.

To whom do you speak this?

Do you see nothing there?

Nothing at all.

This is the very coinage

of your brain.

My pulse as yours

doth temporately keep time

and makes as healthful music.

It is not madness I have uttered.

Mother,

for the love of grace,

confess yourself to heaven.

Repent what is past.

Avoid what is to come.

Do not spread the compost

on the weeds to make them ranker.

O Hamlet,

thou hast cleft my heart in twain.

Throw away the worser part of it,

and live the purer

with the other half.

Good night.

For the same lord, I do repent.

But heaven hath pleased it so

to punish me with this

and this with me.

I will bestow him, and answer well

the death gave him.

One word more, good lady.

What shall I do?

Not ths, by no means,

let that bloat Kng

tempt you agan to bed,

pinch wanton on your cheek,

call you his mouse,

and let him,

for a pair of reechy kisses,

make you ravel this matter out,

that I essentially am not

in madness, but mad in craft.

Be thou assured.

If words are made of breath,

and breath of life,

I have no life to breathe

what thou has said to me.

I must to England,

you know that.

Alack, I had forgotten.

'Ts so concluded on.

I'll lug the guts

into the neighbouring room.

Mother, good night.

Indeed this counsellor

is most still,

most silent,

and most grave,

who was in life

a foolish, prating knave.

Come sir, to draw toward

an end with you.

Good night, mother.

What have you done, my lord,

with the dead body?

Compounded it with dust,

whereto 'tis kin.

Tell us where 'tis, so we may

bear it to the chapel.

Do not believe it.

Believe what?

That I can keep your counsel

and not my own.

Besides, to be demanded of

by a sponge...

You take me for a sponge?

Ay, sir.

Soaking up the King's countenance,

his awards, his authorities.

You must tell us

where the body is

and go with us to the King.

The body is with the King,

but the King

is not with the body.

The King is a thing...

A thing, my lord?

...of nothing.

How now, what hath befallen?

Where the dead body

is bestowed, my lord,

we cannot get from him.

Now Hamlet, where is Polonius?

At supper.

At supper? Where?

Not where he eats,

but where he is eaten.

A convocation of politic worms

are eaten at him.

We fat all creatures to fat us,

we fat ourselves for maggots.

Your fat king and lean beggar

is but variable service.

Two dishes, but to one table.

That's the end.

Where is Polonius?

In heaven.

Send thither to see.

If your messenger find him not,

seek in the other place yourself.

But indeed if you find him not

within the month,

you shall nose him as you

go up the stairs into the lobby.

Go seek him there.

He will stay till you come.

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, wind helps,

associates tend, for England.

For England?

- Ay, Hamlet.

- Good.

If thou knowest our purpose.

Farewell, my mother.

Thy loving father, Hamlet.

My mother.

Father and mother is man and wife,

man and wife is one flesh,

and so my mother.

For everything...

is sealed and done

that leans on the affair.

The present death of Hamlet.

Do it, England,

for like the hectic in my blood

he rages and thou must cure me.

Good sir,

whose powers are these?

The nephew to old Norway,

Fortinbras.

How all occasions

do inform against me

and spur my dull revenge.

What is a man if

the 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 unused.

Now...

whether it's bestial oblivion

or some craven scruple

of thinking too precisely

on the event.

A thought quartered has one part

wisdom, three parts coward.

I know not why yet

I live to say:

"This thing's to do."

Sith I have cause,

and means and strength

and will to do it.

Examples gross as earth

exhort me.

Rightly to be great

is not to stir

without great argument,

but greatly to find quarrel

in a straw

when honour is at stake.

How stand I then,

that have a father k*lled,

a mother stained,

excitements of my reason

and my blood...

and let all sleep?

From this time forth,

may my thoughts be bloody

or be nothing worth.

To my sick soul,

as sin's true nature is,

each joy seems prologue

to some great amiss.

So full of artless jealousy

is guilt.

It spills itself

in fearing to be spilt.

Where is the beauteous

majesty of Denmark?

How now, Ophelia?

How should I your true love

know from another one?

Alas, sweet lady,

what imports this song?

What say you? He is

dead and gone, dead and gone.

At his head, grassgreen turf,

at his heels, a stone.

Nay, but Ophelia...

Pray you mark!

My lord, alas look here.

How do you, pretty lady?

Pray, let's have

no more words of this.

But when they ask you, say this:

Up he rose and donned his clothes

and dug the chamber door,

but in the maid and out

the maid, never departed more.

I hope all will be well.

We must be patient.

But I cannot choose but to weep,

to think they lay him

in the cold ground.

My brother will know of this.

And so I thank you

for your good counsel.

Good night, good night,

sweet ladies. Good night!

How long has she been thus?

Calmly, good Laertes.

A drop of calm blood proclaims me

b*stard, cuckold's my father,

brands the harlot even here

between the unsmirched brow

of my true mother.

What causes thy rebellion

to look so giantlike?

Let him go, Gertrude.

Do not fear our person.

Such divinity doth hedge a king.

Where is my father?

Dead.

But not by him.

How came he dead?

I'll not be juggled with.

- No, Laertes!

- To hell allegiance!

Conscience and grace

to the profoundest pit!

I dare damnation!

Let come what comes,

only I'll be revenged

most thoroughly for my father.

Who shall stay you?

My will,

not all the worid's.

For my means, I'll husband them so

well they will go foul with little.

Thou speaks like a good child

and a true gentleman.

That I am guiltless of

your father's death

and sensibly in grief for it,

I shall to your

level judgement peer

as day doth to your eye.

He will not come again?

No, no, he's dead.

Go to thy deathbed.

He will never come again.

O rose of May, dear maid.

Kind sister, sweet Ophelia.

Hadst thou thy wits to persuade

revenge, it could not move thus.

How is it possible

a young maid's wits

should be as mortal as

an old man's life?

There's rosemary,

that's for remembrances.

I pray you, love, remember.

And there's pansies,

that's for thoughts.

Fennel for you and columbine.

There's rue for you,

and some for me too.

We may call it herb

of grace of Sundays.

You must wear your rue

with a difference.

There's a daisy.

I would give you some violets,

but they withered all

when my father died.

They say he came to a good end.

Where the offence is

let the great axe fall.

Now must your conscience

my acquittal seal.

And you must put me

in your heart for friend.

Sith you heard

that he which hath your noble

father slain pursued my life.

Tell me why you proceed not

against these feats so...

crimeful and capital in nature.

The Queen, his mother,

lives almost by his looks.

And for myself, my virtue or

my plague, I know not which,

she is so conjunctive to my life

that as a star moves not

but in his sphere,

I could not but by her.

So I have a noble father lost,

a sister...

driven to desperate terms,

whose worth

stood challenger on mount of

all the age for her perfections.

But my revenge will come.

Break not your sleeps for that.

You must not think 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 loved your father

and we love ourself.

And that, I hope,

will teach you to imagine.

From Hamlet.

Laertes, you shall hear.

"High and mighty, you shall know

I am set naked on your kingdom.

Tomorrow I shall beg your leave

to your kingly eyes,

where I shall, asking your pardon,

there unto recount

the occasin of my sudden

and more strange return.

Hamlet."

"Naked"...

and in the postscript he says

"alone". Can you devise me?

I am lost in it, my lord.

But let him come.

It warms the very sickness

in my heart.

If he be now returned,

I shall 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 of blame shall breathe.

Not even his mother shall uncharge

and call it accident.

Was your father dear to you?

Or are you like a painting

of sorrow, a face without a heart?

Why ask you this, my lord?

There live within the flame of love

a kind of wick or snuff

that will abate it.

And nothing is as a

like goodness still.

Goodness, growing to a pleurisy,

dies in its own too much.

That we would do, we should

do when we would.

For that "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 of the ulcer.

What wouldst thou undertake to

show yourself your father's son

in deed more than in word?

One woe doth tread upon

another's heels,

so fast they follow.

Your sister is drowned, Laertes.

Drowned?

Drowned.

Drowned.

Not to have strewed

thy grave.

And but that great command

o'ersways the order, she should

in ground unsanctified have

lodged till the last trumpet.

Must there be no more done?

No more be done.

Lay her in the earth,

and from her fair

and unpolluted flesh...

Ophelia,

may violets spring.

Hold off the earth till I have

caught her once more in my arms.

Now pile your dust upon

the quick and dead

till of this flat

you have a mountain made.

What's he whose grief

bears such an emphasis,

whose phrase of sorrow

conjures the wandering stars

and makes them stand like

wonder-wounded hearers?

The devil take thy soul!

I loved Ophelia.

Forty thousand brothers with all

their love cannot make up my sum.

What wilt thou do for her?

Show me what thou wilt do.

Wilt thou weep, wilt fight,

wilt tear thyself,

wilt drink up easel,

eat a crocodile?

Dost thou come here to whine?

Pluck them asunder.

What is the reason you use me thus?

I loved you ever.

But it doth not matter.

In my heart there was a fighting

that would not let me sleep.

Praised be rashness, for it

lets us know our indiscretions...

do sometimes serve us well

when our deep plots do pall.

That should teach us there's

a divinity that shapes our ends,

rough-hew them how we will.

Will thou hear how I did proceed?

I do beseech you.

From my cabin, in the dark,

groped I,

to unseal their grand commissin.

I found, Horatio,

an exact command.

My head should be struck off.

Here's the commissin.

Read it at more leisure.

Thus rounded with villainies,

I sat me down,

devised a new commissin,

wrote it fair.

An earnest conjuration

from the King

that upon view and knowing

of these contents

he should these bearers

put to death.

So Guildenstern

and Rosencrantz go to it.

Why, man, they did make love

to this employment.

They are not near my conscience.

Their defeat is their insinuation.

'Tis dangerous when baser nature

comes between pass and fell

incense points of mighty opposites.

Think that he that k*lled my king,

whored my mother, it not conscience

to quit him with this arm?

It must be shortly known from

England what is the business there.

It will be short.

The interim is mine.

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.

The King, sir.

He wagers that in a dozen passes

between yourself and Laertes

he shall not exceed you

three hits.

He hath laid on 12-9,

and it would come to immediate

trial if your lordship answer.

How if I answer no?

If it please His Majesty, it is

the breathing time of day with me.

You'll lose, my lord.

I do not think so.

But thou wouldst not think how

ill all's here about my heart.

If your mind dislike anything,

obey it.

I will forestall their repair

hither, say you are not fit.

No, not a whit.

We defy augury.

There is 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, or yet it will come.

The readiness is all.

Since no man has what he leaves,

what is it to leave betimes?

Let be.

Hamlet, this pearl is thine.

Here's to thy health.

Give me your pardon, sir.

I have done you wrong.

Pardon it, as you are a gentleman.

This presence knows how I am

punished with a sore distraction.

What I have done that might your

nature and honour roughly awake

I here proclaim was madness.

Let my disclaiming from

a purposed evil

free me so far in your

most generous thoughts,

that I have shot my arrow over

the house and hurt my brother.

Give us the foils.

This is too heavy.

Let me see another.

This one likes me well.

These foils are all a length?

Ay, my good lord.

Is your skill like a star in

darkest night, fiery indeed.

You mock me, sir.

No, by this hand.

Cousin Hamlet,

you know the wager?

Very well. Your Grace has

laid odds on the weaker side.

I do not fear it.

I have seen you both, but since

he is bettered, we have odds.

Set stoups of wine on the table.

The King drinks to Hamlet.

Come, sir.

Come, my lord.

Judgement?

A hit. A palpable hit.

Well, again.

Stay,

give me drink.

Give him the cup.

I'll play this bout first.

Set it aside awhile.

Another hit. What say you?

A touch. I do confess it.

Our son shall win.

Hamlet, take my napkin.

Rub thy brows.

The Queen carouses

to thy fortune, Hamlet.

I pray you, pardon me.

Come...

let me wipe thy face.

Come, Laertes.

You do but dally.

Pass with your best violence.

Say you so.

Come on.

Thy mother's poisoned.

The King.

The King's to blame.

Horatio...

I am dead.

Thou livest.

Report me and my cause

aright to the unsatisfied.

And if thou didst ever

hold me in thy heart,

absent thee from felicity awhile

and in this harsh worid

draw thy breath in pain

to tell my story.

The rest is silence.

Now cracks a noble heart.

Good night,

sweet prince.

And flights of angels

sing thee to thy rest.

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 has struck?

The sight is dismal.

Our wills and fates

do so contrary run

that our devices

still are overthrown.

Our thoughts are ours,

their ends none of our own.