The Queen's closet.

Enter Queen and Polonius. Pol. He 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 screened and stood

Much heat and him. I'll silence me even

here. Pray you, be round with him. Ham. [Within.] Mother, mother, mother. Queen. I'll warrant you, fear me not. Withdraw, I hear him coming

[Polonius hides behind the arras.

Enter Hamlet. Ham. Now, mother, what's the matter? 10 Queen. Hamlet, thou hast thy father much

offended, Ham. Mother, you have my father much of

fended. Queer. Come, come, you answer with an idle

tongue. Ham. Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.

Queen. Why, how now, Hamlet!

What's the matter now?
Queen. Have you forgot me?

No, by the rood, not so. 15 You are the Queen, your husband's brother's

wife; And—would it were not so!-you are my

mother. Queen. Nay, then, I'll set those to you that can

speak. Ham. Come, come, and sit you down. You

shall not budge. You go not till I set you up a glass 20

Where you may see the inmost part of you. Queen. What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not

murder me? Help, help, ho! Pol. [Behind.] What, ho! help, help, help! Ham. [Drawing.] How now! A rat? Dead, 25 for a ducat, dead!

[Makes a pass through the arras. Pol. [Behind.] 0, I am slain! [Falls and dies. Queen.

O me, what hast thou done? Ham. Nay, I know not. Is it the King? Queen. 0, what a rash and bloody deed is this! Ham. A bloody deed! Almost as bad, good mother,

As kill a king, and marry with his brother. 30 Queen. As kill a king! Ham.

Ay, lady, 'twas 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 find'st to be too busy is some danger.

[Drops the arras. 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 brazed it so

That it be proof and bulwark against sense. 40 Queen. 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 dicers' oaths; 0, such a deed
As from the body of contraction plucks
The very soul, and sweet religion makes
A rhapsody of words. Heaven's face does

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? Ham. Look here, upon this picture, aņd on this, 55 The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.

Queen that foc hero,


See, what a grace was seated on this brow.
Hyperion's 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 mildewed ear, 65 Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you

I eyes? Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes? You can not call it love, for at your age The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble, 70 And waits upon the judgement; and what

judgement Would step from this to this? Sense sure

you have, Else could you not have motion; but sure,

that sense Is apoplexed; for madness would not err, Nor sense to ecstasy was ne'er so thralled 75 But it reserved some quantity of choice, To serve in such a difference. What devil

was 't That thus hath cozened you at hoodman

Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,
Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,
Or but a sickly part of one true sense
Could not so mope.
O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,

If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones, 86 . To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,

And melt in her own fire. Proclaim no

shame When the compulsive ardour gives the charge, Since frost itself as actively doth burn

And reason panders will. Queen.

O Hamlet, speak nd more! 90 Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul,

And there I see such black and grained spots

As will not leave their tinct. Нат.

Nay, but to live


O, speak to me no more!
These words like daggers enter in my ears.
95 No more, sweet Hamlet!

A murderer and a villain!
A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe
Of your precedent lord! A vice of kings!
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,

That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, 100 And put it in his pocket! Queen.

No more! Ham. A king of shreds and patches,

Enter Ghost.

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