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of prayer

       Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder!—

       That cannot be; since I am still possess’d

       Of those effects for which I did the murder,—

       My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.

       May one be pardon’d and retain the offence?

       In the corrupted currents of this world

       Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice;

       And oft ‘tis seen the wicked prize itself

       Buys out the law; but ‘tis not so above;

       There is no shuffling;—there the action lies

       In his true nature; and we ourselves compell’d,

       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 cannot repent?

       O wretched state! O bosom black as death!

       O limed soul, that, struggling to be free,

       Art more engag’d! 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.]

       Ham.

       Now might I do it pat, now he is praying;

       And now I’ll do’t;—and so he goes to heaven;

       And so am I reveng’d.—that would be scann’d:

       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,

       ‘Tis heavy with him: and am I, then, reveng’d,

       To take him in the purging of his soul,

       When he is fit and season’d 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 in’t;—

       Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven;

       And that his soul may be as damn’d and black

       As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays:

       This physic but prolongs thy sickly days.

       [Exit.]

       [The King rises and advances.]

       King.

       My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:

       Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

       [Exit.]

       SCENE IV. Another room in the castle.

       [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 screen’d and stood between

       Much heat and him. I’ll silence me e’en 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 goes behind the arras.]

       [Enter Hamlet.]

       Ham.

       Now, mother, what’s the matter?

       Queen.

       Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

       Ham.

       Mother, you have my father much offended.

       Queen.

       Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.

       Ham.

       Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.

       Queen.

       Why, how now, Hamlet!

       Ham.

       What’s the matter now?

       Queen.

       Have you forgot me?

       Ham.

       No, by the rood, not so:

       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

       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.

       How now? a rat? [Draws.]

       Dead for a ducat, dead!

       [Makes a pass through the arras.]

       Pol.

       [Behind.] O, I am slain!

       [Falls and dies.]

       Queen.

       O me, what hast thou done?

       Ham.

       Nay, I know not: is it the king?

       [Draws forth Polonius.]

       Queen.

       O, 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.

       Queen.

       As kill a king!

       Ham.

       Ay, lady, ‘twas my word.—

       Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!

       [To Polonius.]

       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;

       If damned custom have not braz’d it so

       That it is proof and bulwark against sense.

       Queen.

       What have I done, that thou

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