HAMLET. William Shakespeare

But even then the morning cock crew loud,

       And at the sound it shrunk in haste away,

       And vanish’d from our sight.

       Ham.

       ‘Tis very strange.

       Hor.

       As I do live, my honour’d lord, ‘tis true;

       And we did think it writ down in our duty

       To let you know of it.

       Ham.

       Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me.

       Hold you the watch tonight?

       Mar. and Ber.

       We do, my lord.

       Ham.

       Arm’d, say you?

       Both.

       Arm’d, my lord.

       Ham.

       From top to toe?

       Both.

       My lord, from head to foot.

       Ham.

       Then saw you not his face?

       Hor.

       O, yes, my lord: he wore his beaver up.

       Ham.

       What, look’d he frowningly?

       Hor.

       A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.

       Ham.

       Pale or red?

       Hor.

       Nay, very pale.

       Ham.

       And fix’d his eyes upon you?

       Hor.

       Most constantly.

       Ham.

       I would I had been there.

       Hor.

       It would have much amaz’d you.

       Ham.

       Very like, very like. Stay’d it long?

       Hor.

       While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.

       Mar. and Ber.

       Longer, longer.

       Hor.

       Not when I saw’t.

       Ham.

       His beard was grizzled,—no?

       Hor.

       It was, as I have seen it in his life,

       A sable silver’d.

       Ham.

       I will watch tonight;

       Perchance ‘twill walk again.

       Hor.

       I warr’nt it will.

       Ham.

       If it assume my noble father’s person,

       I’ll speak to it, though hell itself should gape

       And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all,

       If you have hitherto conceal’d this sight,

       Let it be tenable in your silence still;

       And whatsoever else shall hap tonight,

       Give it an understanding, but no tongue:

       I will requite your loves. So, fare ye well:

       Upon the platform, ‘twixt eleven and twelve,

       I’ll visit you.

       All.

       Our duty to your honour.

       Ham.

       Your loves, as mine to you: farewell.

       [Exeunt Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo.]

       My father’s spirit in arms! All is not well;

       I doubt some foul play: 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.

       [Exit.]

       SCENE III. A room in Polonius’s house.

       [Enter Laertes and Ophelia.]

       Laer.

       My necessaries are embark’d: farewell:

       And, sister, as the winds give benefit

       And convoy is assistant, do not sleep,

       But let me hear from you.

       Oph.

       Do you doubt that?

       Laer.

       For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour,

       Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood:

       A violet in the youth of primy nature,

       Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting;

       The perfume and suppliance of a minute;

       No more.

       Oph.

       No more but so?

       Laer.

       Think it no more:

       For nature, crescent, does not grow alone

       In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes,

       The inward service of the mind and soul

       Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now;

       And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch

       The virtue of his will: but you must fear,

       His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own;

       For he himself is subject to his birth:

       He may not, as unvalu’d persons do,

       Carve for himself; for on his choice depends

       The safety and health of this whole state;

       And therefore must his choice be circumscrib’d

       Unto the voice and yielding of that body

       Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you,

       It fits your wisdom so far 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 unmaster’d importunity.

       Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister;

       And keep you in the rear of your affection,

       Out of the shot and danger of desire.

       The chariest maid is prodigal enough

       If she unmask her beauty to the moon:

       Virtue itself scopes not calumnious strokes:

       The canker galls the infants of the spring

       Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d:

       And in the morn and liquid dew of youth

       Contagious blastments are most imminent.

       Be wary then; best safety lies in fear:

       Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.

       Oph.

       I shall th’ effect of this good lesson keep

       As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother,