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Scene Study (Male-Male)


Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak, I’ll go no further.


Mark me.


I will.


My hour is almost come

When I to sulph’rous and tormenting flames

Must render up myself.


Alas, poor ghost!


Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing

To what I shall unfold.


Speak, I am bound to hear.


So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.




I am thy father’s spirit,

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

And for the day confin’d to fast in 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 an end,

Like quills upon the fearful porpentine.

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—


O God!


Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.




Murder most foul, as in the best it is,

But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.


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

As meditation, or the thoughts of love,

May sweep to my revenge.


I find thee apt,

And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed

That roots 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.


O my prophetic soul!

My uncle?


Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,

With witchcraft of his wits, 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 moved,

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 hebona in a vial,

And in the porches of my ears did pour

The leprous distillment, 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 vigor 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 reck’ning 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 howsomever thou pursues 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 glow-worm shows the matin to be near,

And gins to pale his uneffectual fire.

Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me.


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