Elsinore. A room in Polonius’ house.
(Polonius; Reynaldo; Ophelia)
Polonius sends Reynaldo to spy on Laertes in Paris. Ophelia rushes in to tell her father that Hamlet came to visit her, not speaking a word but completely under-dressed and disheveled. Polonius is certain that Hamlet has gone mad for love, and regrets having told Ophelia to cease seeing him, as the prince’s love is clearly stronger than he thought. (131 lines)
Enter old Polonius with his man, Reynaldo.
Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.
I will, my lord.
You shall do marvell’s wisely, good Reynaldo,
Before you visit him, to make inquire
Of his behavior.
My lord, I did intend it.
Marry, well said, very well said. Look you, sir,
Inquire me first what Danskers are in Paris,
And how, and who, what means, and where they keep,
What company, at what expense; and finding
By this encompassment and drift of question
That they do know my son, come you more nearer
Than your particular demands will touch it.
Take you as ’twere some distant knowledge of him,
As thus, “I know his father and his friends,
And in part him.” Do you mark this, Reynaldo?
Ay, very well, my lord.
“And in part him—but,” you may say, “not well.
But if’t be he I mean, he’s very wild,
Addicted so and so,” and there put on him
What forgeries you please: marry, none so rank
As may dishonor him, take heed of that,
But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips
As are companions noted and most known
To youth and liberty.
As gaming, my lord.
Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrelling,
Drabbing—you may go so far.
My lord, that would dishonor him.
Faith, as you may season it in the charge:
You must not put another scandal on him,
That he is open to incontinency—
That’s not my meaning. But breathe his faults so quaintly
That they may seem the taints of liberty,
The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind,
A savageness in unreclaimed blood,
Of general assault.
But, my good lord—
Wherefore should you do this?
Ay, my lord,
I would know that.
Marry, sir, here’s my drift,
And I believe it is a fetch of wit:
You laying these slight sallies on my son,
As ’twere a thing a little soil’d wi’ th’ working,
Your party in converse, him you would sound,
Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes
The youth you breathe of guilty, be assur’d
He closes with you in this consequence:
“Good sir,” or so, or “friend,” or “gentleman,”
According to the phrase or the addition
Of man and country.
Very good, my lord.
And then, sir, does ’a this—’a does—what was I
About to say?
By the mass, I was about to say something.
Where did I leave?
At “closes in the consequence.“
At “closes in the consequence,” ay, marry.
He closes thus: “I know the gentleman.
I saw him yesterday, or th’ other day,
Or then, or then, with such or such, and as you say,
There was ’a gaming, there o’ertook in ’s rouse,
There falling out at tennis”; or, perchance,
“I saw him enter such a house of sale,”
Videlicet, a brothel, or so forth. See you now,
Your bait of falsehood take this carp of truth,
And thus do we of wisdom and of reach,
With windlasses and with assays of bias,
By indirections find directions out;
So by my former lecture and advice
Shall you my son. You have me, have you not?
My lord, I have.
God buy ye, fare ye well.
Good my lord.
Observe his inclination in yourself.
I shall, my lord.
And let him ply his music.
Well, my lord.
How now, Ophelia, what’s the matter?
O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!
With what, i’ th’ name of God?
My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,
Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac’d,
No hat upon his head, his stockins fouled,
Ungart’red, and down-gyved to his ankle,
Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other,
And with a look so piteous in purport
As if he had been loosed out of hell
To speak of horrors—he comes before me.
Mad for thy love?
My lord, I do not know,
But truly I do fear it.
What said he?
He took me by the wrist, and held me hard,
Then goes he to the length of all his arm,
And with his other hand thus o’er his brow,
He falls to such perusal of my face
As ’a would draw it. Long stay’d he so.
At last, a little shaking of mine arm,
And thrice his head thus waving up and down,
He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk
And end his being. That done, he lets me go,
And with his head over his shoulder turn’d,
He seem’d to find his way without his eyes,
For out a’ doors he went without their helps,
And to the last bended their light on me.
Come, go with me. I will go seek the king.
This is the very ecstasy of love,
Whose violent property fordoes itself,
And leads the will to desperate undertakings
As oft as any passions under heaven
That does afflict our natures. I am sorry—
What, have you given him any hard words of late?
No, my good lord, but as you did command
I did repel his letters, and denied
His access to me.
That hath made him mad.
I am sorry that with better heed and judgment
I had not coted him. I fear’d he did but trifle
And meant to wrack thee, but beshrow my jealousy!
By heaven, it is as proper to our age
To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions,
As it is common for the younger sort
To lack discretion. Come, go we to the king.
This must be known, which, being kept close, might move
More grief to hide, than hate to utter love.