HAMLET. William Shakespeare

My hour is almost come,

       When I to sulph’uous and tormenting flames

       Must render up myself.

       Ham.

       Alas, poor ghost!

       Ghost.

       Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing

       To what I shall unfold.

       Ham.

       Speak; I am bound to hear.

       Ghost.

       So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.

       Ham.

       What?

       Ghost.

       I am thy father’s spirit;

       Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night,

       And for the day confin’d to wastein fires,

       Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature

       Are burnt and purg’d away. But that I am forbid

       To tell the secrets of my prison-house,

       I could a tale unfold whose lightest word

       Would harrow up 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 particular hair to stand on end

       Like quills upon the fretful porcupine:

       But this eternal blazon must not be

       To ears of flesh and blood.—List, list, O, list!—

       If thou didst ever thy dear father love—

       Ham.

       O God!

       Ghost.

       Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

       Ham.

       Murder!

       Ghost.

       Murder most foul, as in the best it is;

       But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

       Ham.

       Haste me to know’t, that I, with wings as swift

       As meditation or the thoughts of love,

       May sweep to my revenge.

       Ghost.

       I find thee apt;

       And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed

       That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,

       Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear.

       ‘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 abus’d; but know, thou noble youth,

       The serpent that did sting thy father’s life

       Now wears his crown.

       Ham.

       O my prophetic soul!

       Mine uncle!

       Ghost.

       Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,

       With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,—

       O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power

       So 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 that dignity

       That it went hand in hand even 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 virtue, as it never will be mov’d,

       Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven;

       So lust, though to a radiant angel link’d,

       Will sate itself in a celestial bed

       And prey on garbage.

       But soft! methinks I scent the morning air;

       Brief let me be.—Sleeping within my orchard,

       My custom always of the afternoon,

       Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole,

       With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial,

       And in the porches of my ears did pour

       The leperous distilment; whose effect

       Holds such an enmity with blood of man

       That, swift as quicksilver, it courses through

       The natural gates and alleys of the body;

       And with a sudden vigour it doth posset

       And curd, like eager droppings into milk,

       The thin and wholesome blood; so did it mine;

       And a most instant tetter bark’d about,

       Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust

       All my smooth body.

       Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand,

       Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch’d:

       Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,

       Unhous’led, disappointed, unanel’d;

       No reckoning made, but sent to my account

       With all my imperfections on my head:

       O, horrible! O, 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 pursu’st this act,

       Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive

       Against thy mother aught: leave her to heaven,

       And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,

       To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once!

       The glowworm shows the matin to be near,

       And ‘gins to pale his uneffectual fire:

       Adieu, adieu! Hamlet, remember me.

       [Exit.]

       Ham.

       O all you host of heaven! O earth! what else?

       And shall I couple hell? O, fie!—Hold, my heart;

       And you, my sinews, grow not instant old,

       But bear me stiffly up.—Remember thee!

       Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat

       In this distracted globe. Remember thee!

       Yea, from the table of my memory

       I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records,

       All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,

       That youth and observation copied there;

       And thy commandment all alone shall live

       Within the book and volume of my brain,

       Unmix’d with baser matter: yes, by heaven!—

       O most pernicious woman!

       O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!

       My tables,—meet it is I set it down,

       That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;