Let not the royal bed of Denmark be
A couch for luxury and damned incest.
But howsomever thou pursuest 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" Hamlet Oh all you host of heaven! Oh earth! What else?
And shall I couple hell? Oh fie! Hold, 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,
Unmixed with baser matter. Yes, by heaven!
Oh most pernicious woman!
Oh villain, villain, smiling damned villain!
My tables. Meet it is I set it down
That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain -
At least I may be sure it may be so in Denmark. " Act 1, Scene 5
O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!
But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two:
So excellent a king; that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on: and yet, within a month—
Let me not think on't—Frailty, thy name is woman!—
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
With which she follow'd my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears:—why she, even she—
O, God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourn'd longer—married with my uncle,
My father's brother, but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules: within a month:
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,
She married. O, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not nor it cannot come to good:
But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue. " Act 1 Scene 2
Good madam! KING
Gertrude, do not drink. QUEEN
I will, my lord; I pray you, pardon me. KING [Aside.]
It is the poison'd cup: it is too late. HAMLET
I dare not drink yet, madam; by and by. QUEEN
Come, let me wipe thy face. LAERTES
My lord, I'll hit him now. KING
I do not think't. LAERTES [Aside.]
And yet 'tis almost 'gainst my conscience. HAMLET
Come, for the third, Laertes: you but dally;
I pray you, pass with your best violence;
I am afeard you make a wanton of me. LAERTES
Say you so? come on. [They play to a draw.] OSRIC
Nothing, neither way. [Hamlet turns back to his mother.] LAERTES
Have at you now! [Laertes wounds Hamlet; Hamlet
knocks Laertes' rapier from his hand
and picks it up.] KING
Part them; they are incensed. HAMLET
Nay, come, again. [Hamlet wounds Laertes. The Queen falls.] OSRIC
Look to the queen there, ho! HORATIO
They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord? OSRIC
How is't, Laertes? LAERTES
Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe, Osric;
I am justly kill'd with mine own treachery. HAMLET
How does the queen? KING
She swoons to see them bleed. QUEEN
No, no, the drink, the drink—O my dear Hamlet—
The drink, the drink! I am poison'd. [Dies.] Act 5 Section 2
One woe doth tread upon another's heel,
So fast they follow; your sister's drown'd, Laertes. LAERTES
Drown'd! O, where?
There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
Therewith fantastic garlands did she make
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them:
There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
Alas, then, she is drown'd? QUEEN
Drown'd, drown'd. LAERTES
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,
And therefore I forbid my tears: but yet
It is our trick; nature her custom holds,
Let shame say what it will: when these are gone,
The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord:
I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze,
But that this folly drowns it. Exit. KING
Let's follow, Gertrude:
How much I had to do to calm his rage!
Now fear I this will give it start again;
Therefore let's follow. " Act 4, Scene 7