Sweet Gertrude, leave us too;
For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither,
That he, as 'twere by accident,
Her father and myself, lawful espials,
Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing,
We may of their encounter frankly judge,
And gather by him, as he is behaved,
If 't be the affliction
of his love or no
That thus he suffers for.
I shall obey you.
And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish
That your good beauties be the happy cause
Hamlet's wildness: so shall I hope your virtues
Will bring him to his wonted way again,
To both your honours.
Madam, I wish it may.
Exit QUEEN GERTRUDE
Ophelia, walk you here. Gracious, so please you,
We will bestow ourselves.
Read on this book;
That show of such an exercise may colour
Your loneliness. We are oft to blame in
'Tis too much provedthat with devotion's visage
And pious action we do sugar o'er
The devil himself.
[Aside] O, 'tis too true!
How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience!
The harlot's cheek, beautied
with plastering art,
Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it
Than is my deed to my most painted word:
I hear him coming: let's withdraw, my lord.
Exeunt KING CLAUDIUS and POLONIUS
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
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay,
there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the
whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised
love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under
a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we
know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents
Copyright: All texts on Bibliomania are © Bibliomania.com Ltd,
and may not be reproduced in any form without our written permission.
See our FAQ for more details.