Hamlet (2018) - full transcript

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, returns home to find his father murdered and his mother remarrying the murderer, his uncle. Meanwhile, war is brewing.

MUSIC: One More Cup Of Coffee
by Bob Dylan

# Your breath is sweet

# Your eyes are like
two jewels in the sky

# Your back is straight,
your hair is smooth

# On the pillow where you lie

# But I don't sense affection

# No gratitude or love

# Your loyalty is not to me

# But to the stars above. #


Who's there?


Nay, answer me.
Stand and unfold yourself.

VIA INTERCOM: Long live the King!




You come most carefully
upon your hour.

'Tis now struck twelve.

Get thee to bed, Francisco.

For this relief much thanks.

'Tis bitter cold,
and I am sick at heart.

Have you had quiet guard?

Not a mouse stirring.

Well, goodnight.

If you do see Horatio and Marcellus,
the rival of my watch,

bid them make haste.


I think I hear them.

Stand, ho! Who is there?

VIA INTERCOM: Friends to this
ground. And liegemen to the king.


Give you good night.

Farewell, honest soldier.
Holla, Bernardo!

Say - what, is Horatio there?

A piece of him.

Welcome, Horatio.
Welcome, good Marcellus.

What, has this thing appear'd
again to-night?

I have seen nothing.

Horatio says 'tis but our fantasy,

and will not let belief
take hold of him.

Therefore I have entreated him
along with us

to watch the minutes of this night,

that, if again
this apparition come,

he may approve our eyes
and speak to it.

It will not appear.

Sit down awhile.

And let us once again
assail your ears,

that are so fortified against
our story,

what we have two nights seen.

Last night of all,

when yond same star that's
westward from the pole

had made his course to
illume that part of heaven

where now it burns...

..Marcellus and myself,

the bell then beating...
Break thee off!

Look where it comes again!

In the same figure,
like the King that's dead.

Thou art a scholar.
Speak to it, Horatio.

Looks it not like the King?

Mark it, Horatio. Most like.

It would be spoke to.

Question it, Horatio!

What art thou

that usurp'st this time of night

together with that
fair and warlike form

in which the majesty of buried
Denmark did sometimes march?

By heaven I charge thee, speak!

It is offended! Stay! Speak, speak!

I charge thee, speak!

'Tis gone.

How now, Horatio?

Is not this something more than
fantasy? What think you on't?

Before my God, I might not
this believe without the sensible
and true avouch of my own eyes.

Is it not like the King?
As thou art to thyself.

Such was the very clothing he had on

when he the ambitious Norway
combated. 'Tis strange!

Thus twice before,
and just at this dead hour.

In what particular thought to
work I know not, but in the gross
and scope of my opinion,

this bodes some strange
eruption to our state!

Good now, sit down,
and tell me, he that knows,

why this same strict
and most observant watch

so nightly toils
the subject of the land,

and why such daily cast
of brazen weapons

and foreign trade
for implements of war?

What might be toward,
in this sweaty haste

that make night
joint labourer with the day?

Who is't can inform me?
That can I.

At least, the whisper goes so.

Our last king,

whose image even but now
appear'd to us,

was, as you know,
by Fortinbras of Norway,

dar'd to the combat,
in which our valiant Hamlet,

for so this side of
our known world esteem'd him,

did slay this Fortinbras,

who, by a seal'd contract,

well ratified by law and heraldry,

did forfeit, with his life,
all of his lands to King Hamlet.

And now, sirs, young Fortinbras,

of unimproved mettle hot and full,

hath in the skirts of Norway,
here and there,

shark'd up a list of
lawless resolutes,

so to recover from us,
by strong hand

and terms compulsatory,

those foresaid lands
so by his father lost.

And this, I take it,

is the main motive
of our preparations.

I think it be no other, but e'en so.

But soft!

Look, where it comes again!


I'll cross it, though it blast me.

Stay, illusion!

If thou hast any sound,

or use of voice, speak to me.

If thou art privy
to our country's fate,

which happily foreknowing
may avoid, O, speak!


'Tis gone!

Break we our watch up,
and by my advice

let us impart what we have seen
tonight unto young Hamlet,

for, upon my life, this spirit,
dumb to us, will speak to him.

Let's do't, I pray, and I tomorrow
know where we shall find him,

most conveniently.

MUSIC: Spirit On The Water
by Bob Dylan

# Spirit on the water

# Darkness on the face of the deep

# I keep thinking about you, baby

# I can't hardly sleep

# I'm travelling by land

# Travelling through
the dawn of day

# You're always on my mind

# I can't stay away

# I'd forgotten about you... #


Though yet of Hamlet
our dear brother's death

the memory be green,

and that it us befitted
to bear our hearts in grief,

and our whole kingdom to be
contracted in one brow of woe,

yet so far hath discretion
fought with nature

that we with wisest sorrow
think on him

together with remembrance
of ourselves.

Therefore our sometime sister,
now our queen,

the imperial jointress
to this warlike state,

have we, as it were
with a defeated joy,

with one auspicious,
and one dropping eye,

with mirth in funeral

and with dirge in marriage,

in equal scale
weighing delight and dole,

taken to wife.

Nor have we herein barr'd
your better wisdoms,

which have freely gone
with this...affair along.

For all, our thanks.

Now follows, that you know,
young Fortinbras,

holding a weak supposal
of our worth,

or thinking by our late dear
brother's death

our state to be disjoint
and out of frame,

colleagued with this dream
of his advantage.

He hath not fail'd
to pester us with message

importing the surrender
of those lands

lost by his father,
with all bonds of law,

to our most valiant brother.

So much for him.

Now for ourself
and for this time of meeting.

Thus much the business is.

Our envoy Voltemand has gone
to the King of Norway,

the uncle of young Fortinbras -

who, impotent and bedrid,

scarcely hears of this,
his nephew's purpose -

to suppress his further threat
or action in this case.

And now.

Laertes, what's the news with you?

You told us of some suit.
What is it, Laertes?

You cannot speak of reason
to the King and lose your voice.

What wouldst thou beg, Laertes,

that shall not be my offer,
not thy asking?

The head is not more native
to the heart,

the hand more instrumental
to the mouth,

than is the throne of Denmark
to thy father.

What wouldst thou have, Laertes?

My dread lord,

your leave and favour to
return to France,

from whence though
willingly I came to Denmark

to show my duty in your coronation,
yet I must confess, that duty done,

my thoughts and wishes
bend again toward France.

And bow them to your
gracious leave and pardon.

Have you your father's leave?
What says Polonius?

He hath, my lord,
wrung from me my slow leave

by laboursome petition.

And at last upon his will,
I seal'd my hard consent.

I do beseech you,
give him leave to go.

Take thy fair hour, Laertes.
Time be thine,

and thy best graces
spend it at thy will!

But now, my cousin Hamlet,

and my son.

A little more than kin,
and less than kind!

How is it that the clouds
still hang on you?

Not so, my lord.
I am too much in the sun.

Good Hamlet,
cast thy nighted colour off,

and let thine eye
look like a friend on Denmark.

Do not for ever with thy vailed lids

seek for thy noble
father in the dust.

Thou know'st 'tis common.

All that lives must die,

passing through nature to eternity.

Ay, madam, it is common.

If it be,

why seems it so particular
with thee?

Seems, madam?

Nay, it is.

I know not 'seems.'

'Tis not alone my inky cloak,
good mother,

nor customary suits of solemn black,

nor windy suspiration
of forc'd breath,

no, nor the fruitful river
in the eye,

nor the dejected havior
in the visage,

together with all forms,
moods, shapes of grief,

that can denote me truly.

These indeed seem,

for they are actions
that a man might play.

But I have that within
which passeth show these

but the trappings
and the suits of woe.

It is sweet and commendable
in your nature, Hamlet,

to give these mourning duties
to your father.

But you must know,
your father lost a father,

that father lost, lost his,

and the survivor bound in
filial obligation for some term

to do obsequious sorrow.

But to persevere in
obstinate condolement

is a course of impious stubbornness.

It is unmanly grief.

For what we know must be,

and is as common as any
the most vulgar thing to sense,

why should we in our peevish
opposition take it to heart?

Fie! It is a fault to heaven,

a fault against the dead,

a fault to nature,
to reason most absurd,

whose common theme
is death of fathers,

and who still hath cried,

from the first corpse till he that
died today, "This must be so."

We pray you throw to earth
this unprevailing woe,

and think of us as of a father.

For let the world take note

you are the most immediate
to our throne,

and with no less nobility of love

than that which dearest father
bears his son

do I impart toward you.

For your intent in going back
to school in Wittenberg,

it is quite contrary to our desire

and we beseech you,
bend you to remain

here in the cheer
and comfort of our eye,

our chiefest courtier,
Hamlet, and our son.

Let not thy mother lose
her prayers, Hamlet.

I pray thee stay with us.

Go not to Wittenberg.

I shall in all my best
obey you, madam.

Why, it is a loving
and a fair reply.

Be as ourself in Denmark.
Madam, come.

This gentle and unforc'd
accord of Hamlet

sits smiling to my heart.

In grace whereof,

no jocund health
that Denmark drinks to-day

but the great cannon
to the clouds shall tell,

and the King's rouse the
heavens proclaim again,

respeaking earthly thunder.


Come away.



O that this...

..too, too solid flesh
would melt...


and resolve itself into a dew!

Or that the Everlasting
had not fix'd His canon

against self-slaughter!

O God!


How weary, stale,
flat, and unprofitable

seem to me all the uses
of the world!

Fie upon it!


'Tis an unweeded garden
grown 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!


thy name is woman!

A little month,
or ere those shoes were old

with which she followed
my poor father's body,

like Niobe, all tears.
Why, 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.

A little 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!




My necessaries are embark'd.

And, sister,
as convoy's assistant,

do not sleep,
but let me hear from you.

Do you doubt that?

For Hamlet...

..and the trifling of his favour,

hold it a fashion,
and a toy in blood.

The perfume and suppliance
of a minute, no more.

No more but so?

Think it no more.

Perhaps he loves you now,

and now no soil nor cautel
doth besmirch

the virtue of his will, but...

You must fear

his greatness weigh'd,
his will is not his own.

For he himself is subject
to his birth.

He may not, as unvalued persons
do, choose for himself,

for on his choice depends the safety
and health of this whole state.

Then if he says he loves you...

It fits your wisdom
so far to believe it,

as he in his particular act and
place may give his saying deed,

which is no further than the
main voice of Denmark goes withal.

Then weigh what
loss your honour may sustain

if with too credent ear you
hear his songs,

or lose your heart, or...your...


..chaste treasure open
to his unmast'red importunity.


Fear it, Ophelia.


Fear it, my dear sister.

Best safety lies in...
BOTH: ..fear.

Youth to itself rebels,
though none else near.

I shall the effect
of this...good lesson

keep as watchman to my heart.

But, good my brother, do not
as some ungracious pastors do,

show me the steep and thorny
way to heaven,

while, like a puff'd
and reckless libertine,

himself the primrose path
of dalliance treads

and ignores his own advice.

O, fear me not!

I stay too long.

But here my father comes.

A double blessing is a double grace.

Occasion smiles upon a second leave.

Yet here, Laertes?
Aboard, aboard, for shame!

You must be stay'd for.

There, my blessing with thee!

And these few precepts in thy
memory see thou character.

Give thy thoughts no tongue,

nor any unproportion'd
thought his act.

Be thou familiar,
but by no means vulgar.

Those friends thou hast,
and their adoption tried,

grapple them to thy soul
with hoops of steel.

Beware of entrance to a quarrel,

but being in it, bear't that
th' opposed may beware of thee.

Give every man thine ear,
but few thy voice.

Take each man's censure,
but reserve thy judgment.

Costly thy habit
as thy purse can buy,

but not express'd in fancy.
Rich, not gaudy!

For the apparel...
ALL: ..oft proclaims the man!

And they in France of
the best rank and station

are most select and generous,
chief in that.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be.

And this above all.

To thine own self be true,

and it must follow,
as the night the day,

thou canst not
then be false to any man.


My blessing season this in thee!

Most humbly do I take
my leave, my lord.

The time invites you.
Go, your servant tends.

Farewell, Ophelia,

and remember well what I have said
to you.

'Tis in my memory lock'd, and you
yourself shall keep the key of it.


What is't, Ophelia,
he hath said to you?

So please you, something
touching the Lord Hamlet.

Marry, well bethought!

'Tis told me he hath very oft
of late given private time to you,

and you yourself
have of your audience

been most free and bounteous.

If it be so, as so 'tis put on me,
and that in way of caution,

I must tell you, you do not
understand yourself so clearly

as it behooves my daughter
and your honour.

What is between you?
Give me up the truth.

He hath, my lord, of late

made many tenders
of his affection to me.


You speak like a green girl,

unsifted in such perilous

Do you believe his tenders,
as you call them?

I do not know, my lord,
what I should think.

Marry, I will teach you!

Think yourself a baby that you have
taken these tenders for true pay,

which are not sterling.

Tender yourself more dearly, or,

not to crack the wind of the
poor phrase, running it thus,

you'll tender me a fool.

My lord,

he hath importun'd me with love
in honourable fashion.

Ay, fashion you may call it.

Go to, go to!

And hath given countenance
to his speech, my lord,

with almost all the
holy vows of heaven.

Ay, springes to catch woodcocks!

I do know, when the blood burns,

how prodigal the soul
lends the tongue vows.

These blazes, daughter,
giving more light than heat,

extinct in both even in
their promise as it is a-making,

you must not take for fire.

From this time,

be somewhat scanter
of your maiden presence.

Set your entreatments
at a higher rate.

For Lord Hamlet, believe
so much in him,

he is young,

and with a larger tether may
he walk than may be given you.

In few, Ophelia,
do not believe his vows.

LOUDLY: This is for all.

I would not, in plain terms,
from this time forth

have you so slander
any moment's leisure

as to give words or talk
with the Lord Hamlet.

Look to it, I charge you.
Come your ways.

I shall obey, my lord.


LOUDLY: Hail to Your Lordship!

I am very glad to see you.



Or I do forget myself.
The same, my lord!

And your poor servant ever.

Sir, my good friend -
I'll change that name with you.

But what make you
from Wittenberg, Horatio?

Marcellus? My good lord!

I am very glad to see you.
Good even, sir.


But what, in faith, make
you from Wittenberg, Horatio?

A truant disposition, good my lord.

I would not hear your enemy say so.
I know you are no truant.

But what is your affair in Elsinore?

We'll teach you to drink deep
ere you depart.

My lord,
I came to see your father's funeral.

I prithee, do not mock me,
fellow student.

I think it was to see
my mother's wedding.

Indeed, my lord.
It followed hard upon.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio!

The funeral bak'd meats did coldly
furnish forth the marriage tables.

Would I had met my
dearest foe in heaven

or ever I had seen that day,

My father.

Methinks I see my father.

Where, my lord?

In my mind's eye, Horatio.

I saw him.


He was a goodly king.
He was a man.

Take him for all in all.

I shall not look
upon his like again.

My lord, I think...

..I saw him yesternight.
Saw who?

My lord, the King your father.
The King my father?

Season your admiration for
a while with an attent ear,

till I may deliver upon the
witness of these gentlemen,

this marvel to you.
For God's love, let me hear!

Two nights together had these
gentlemen been thus encount'red.

A figure...

..like your father,
appears before them.

This to me in dreadful secrecy
impart they did,

and I with them the third
night kept the watch, where...

..as they had deliver'd,
both in time,

form of the thing, each word made
true and good, the apparition comes.

I knew your father.
These hands are not more like.

But where was this?

My lord, upon the
platform where we watch'd.

Did you not speak to it?

My lord, I did,
but answer made it none.

'Tis very strange.

As I do live, my honour'd lord,
'tis true.

This troubles me.

Hold you the watch to-night?
We do, my lord.

Saw you his face?

Yes, my lord.

What, look'd he frowningly?

A countenance more in sorrow
than in anger.

I would I had been there.

It would have much amaz'd you.

Very like.

Very like.

Stay'd it long?

While one with moderate haste
might tell a hundred...

Longer, longer. Not when I saw't.

I will watch to-night.

Perchance 'twill walk again.

I warr'nt it will.

If it assume my
noble father's person...

..I'll speak to it,

though hell itself should
gape and bid me hold my peace.

I pray thee, if you have hitherto
conceal'd this sight,

let it be tenable in your
silence still.

I will requite your love.

Come, go your ways.


Welcome, dear Rosencrantz
and Guildenstern!

Moreover that we much did
long to see you,

the need we have to use you
did provoke our hasty sending.

Something have you heard of Hamlet's
transformation? So call it,

since nor the exterior nor the
inward man resembles that it was.

What it should be, more than
his father's death,

that thus hath put him so much
from the understanding of himself,

I cannot dream of.
I entreat you both,

that, being of so young days
brought up with him,

and since so neighbour'd
to his youth and behaviour,

that you vouchsafe your rest
here in our court some little time,

so by your companies to
draw him on to pleasures,

and to gather, so much as
from occasion you may glean,

whether aught, to us
unknown, afflicts him thus,

that, open'd,
lies within our remedy.

Good Guildenstern,
he hath much talk'd of you,

and sure I am two friends there are
not living to whom he more adheres.

If it will please you to show us
so much gentry and good will

as to expend your time
with us awhile,

for the supply and profit
of our hope,

your visitation shall receive such
thanks as fits a king's remembrance.

Both your majesties might, by the
sovereign power you have of us,

put your dread pleasures
more into command than to entreaty.


But...but we both obey!

And here give up ourselves,
in the full bent

to lay our service freely
at your feet, to be commanded.

Thanks, Rosencrantz and
gentle Guildenstern.

No, thanks, Guildenstern
and gentle Rosencrantz.


And I beseech you instantly
to visit my too much changed son.

Heavens make our presence
and our practices

pleasant and helpful to him!

Ay, amen!

# I'm as pale as a ghost

# Holding a blossom on a stem

# You ever seen a ghost?

# No

# But you have heard of them. #



What hour now?
I think it lacks of twelve.

No, it is struck. Indeed?

Then it draws near the season
in which the spirit

held his wont to walk.


What does this mean, my lord?

The King doth wake to-night
and takes his rouse,

and, as he drains his draughts
of Rhenish down,

the soldier's music and
rites of war bray out

the triumph of his pledge.
Is it a custom?

Ay, marry, it is!

But to my mind,
though I am native here

and to the manner born,
it is a custom

more honour'd in the breach
than the observance.

This heavy-headed revel
east and west

makes us traduc'd
and tax'd of other nations.

They call us drunkards

and indeed it takes
from our achievements,

though perform'd at height.

So oft it chances in particular men

that, for a vicious
mole of nature in them,

their virtues else -
be they as pure as grace,

as infinite as man may undergo -

shall in the general censure
take corruption

from that particular fault.

Look, my lord.


It comes.

Be thy intents wicked or charitable,

thou com'st in such a questionable
shape I'll speak to thee.

I'll call thee Hamlet,

royal Dane, King...


Answer me why thou, dead corpse,

again revisits thus
the glimpses of the moon.

Say, why is this?

Wherefore? What should we do?



It beckons you to go away with it!
Do not go to it! Do not, my lord!

Why, what should be the fear?
I do not set my life at a pin's fee!

It waves me forth. I'll go to it.
What if it tempt you

towards the flood, my lord, or
to the dreadful summit of a cliff,

and there assume some other,
horrible form which might

deprive your sovereignty of reason
and draw you into madness?

It waves me forth again!
You shall not go, my lord.

Hold off your hands!
Be rul'd. You shall not go!

My fate cries out

and makes each petty artery
in this body

as hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.

Still am I call'd.
Unhand me, gentlemen.

By God, I'll make a ghost
of him that stops me!


Mark me.

I will.

I am thy father's spirit,

doom'd for a certain term
to walk the night,

and for the day
confined to fast in fires

till the foul crimes done in my days
of nature are burnt and purged away.


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.

What? My hour is almost come.

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 it,

that I, with wings
as swift as meditation

and thoughts of love,
may sweep to my revenge.

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 abused.
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 brief let me be.

Sleeping within my orchard,
my custom always of the afternoon,

upon my secret hour thy uncle stole,

with juice of cursed poison
in a vial,

and in the porches of my ears
did pour the leperous distilment,

whose effect holds such an enmity
with the state of man

that swift as quicksilver it
courses through the natural gates

and alleys of the body, and
with a sudden vigour 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, unhousel'd, disappointed,

unanel'd, without confession made,

sent to my account with
all my imperfections on my head!

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, howsoever you pursue this act,

taint not thy mind,

nor let thy soul proceed
against thy mother aught.

Leave her to heaven and to those
thorns that in her bosom lodge.

Fare thee well at once!

The morning comes.



Remember me.


Hold, my heart!

And you, my sinews,
grow not instant old,

but bear me stiffly up.

Remember thee?

Ay, thy poor ghost, remember thee?

Yea, from the table of my memory

I'll wipe away all
trivial fond records,

all quotes 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,

unmix'd with baser matter.

Yes, by heaven!

O most pernicious woman!

O villain!


Smiling, damned villain!

Meet it is I set it down
that one may smile, and smile,

and be a villain.

At least I am sure
it may be so in Denmark.

So, uncle, there you are.

Now to my word!


How is't, my noble lord?
What news, my lord?

O, wonderful!
Good my lord, tell it.

No, you will reveal it.

Not I, my lord, by heaven!
Nor I, my lord.

But you'll be secret?
Ay, by heaven, my lord.

There's ne'er a villain
dwelling in all Denmark

but he's an arrant knave.

There needs no ghost, my lord,
come from the grave to tell us this.

Why, right! You are in the right!

And so, without more
circumstance at all,

I hold it fit that
we shake hands and part.

You, as your business
and desires shall point you,

for every man hath business and
desire, such as it is.

These are but wild and
whirling words, my lord.

I am sorry they offend you,

There's no offence, my lord.

Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is!
And much offence, too.

Touching this vision here, it is an
honest ghost, that let me tell you.

For your desire to know what is
between us, overcome it as you may.

And now, good friends,

as you are friends, scholars,
and soldiers,

give me one poor request.
What is't, my lord?

Never make known what you
have seen to-night.

Never to speak of this
that you have seen.

Never to speak of this
that you have heard.

O day and night,
but this is wondrous strange!

And therefore as a stranger
give it welcome.

There are more things
in heaven and earth, Horatio,

than are dreamt of
in our philosophy.

But come!

Here, as before, never,
so help you mercy,

how strange or odd I bear myself -

as I perchance hereafter
shall think it meet

to put an antic disposition on -

that you, at such times
seeing me, never shall,

with arms encumb'red thus,
or this head-shake,

or by pronouncing of
some doubtful phrase,

as "Well, well, we know,"
or "We could, an if we would,"

or such ambiguous giving out, to
note that you know aught of me -

this is not to do,

so grace and mercy at their
most need help you, swear.

I swear. I swear.

With all my love
I do commend me to you.

The time...


..out of joint.

O, cursed spite

that ever I was born
to set it right.

He waxes desperate with imagination.

Something is rotten in
the state of Denmark.

by Bob Dylan

# Everything went from bad to worse

# Money never changed a thing

# Death kept followin'
trackin' us down

# At least I heard
your bluebird sing

# Now somebody's got to
show their hand

# Time is an enemy

# I know you're long gone

# I guess it must be up to me

# If I'd have thought about it

# I never would've done it

# I guess I would've let it slide

# If I'd have paid attention to
what others were thinkin'

# The heart inside me
would have died

# But I was just too stubborn
to ever be governed

# By enforced insanity

# Someone had to reach
for the risin' star

# I guess it was up to me... #

You shall do marvellous wisely,
good Reynaldo,

before you visit Laertes in France,

to make inquire of his behaviour.

My lord, I did intend it.

Marry, well said, very well said.

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 it be he I mean,
he's very wild, addicted,

"and so and so,"

and there put on him
what forgeries you please.

As gaming, my lord.

Ay, or drinking, fencing,
swearing, quarrelling,

whoring, you may go so far.

But, my good lord...
Wherefore should you do this?

Ay, my lord, I would know that.

Marry, sir, here's my drift.

You laying these slight
sullies on my son,

your French 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.

or "friend," or "gentleman,"

according to the phrase and the
addition of man and country...

Yes, very good, my lord.

And then, sir, does he this...

He... He does...

What was I about to say?

I was about to say something!
Where did I leave?

At "closes in the consequence",
at "friend or so", and "gentleman".

"Closes in the consequence".

Ay, marry!

He closes thus:

"I know the gentleman.

"I saw him yesterday,
or the other day,

"and, as you say,
there was he gaming;

"there o'ertook in's rouse;
there falling out at tennis."

Or perchance,
"I saw him enter a brothel."

See you now?

Your bait of falsehood
takes this carp of truth;

and thus do we of wisdom
and of reach,

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 be with you. Fare ye well!
Good, my lord!

Observe his inclination in yourself.

I shall, my lord.


How now, Ophelia?
What's the matter?

Lord Hamlet,

with his doublet all unbrac'd,

pale as his shirt,
his knees knocking each other,

with a look so piteous in purport
as if he'd 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 over his brow,

he falls to such perusal of my face
as he would draw it.

Long stay'd he so.

And 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 o' doors
he went without their help,

and to the last bended
their light on me.

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 passion under heaven
that does afflict our natures.

I am sorry.


This must be known;
which, being kept close,

might move more grief to hide than
hate to utter love.





The ambassador from Norway,
my good lord, is presently at hand.


Thou still hast been
the father of good news.

Have I, my lord?

I assure, my good liege,
I hold my duty as I hold my soul,

both to my God and
to my gracious king;

and I do think, or else this brain
of mine hunts not

the trail of policy so sure as
it hath us'd to do,

that I have found the very cause of
Hamlet's lunacy.

O, speak of that!
That do I long to hear.

Give first admittance to
the ambassador.

My news shall be the fruit to
that great feast.



He tells me, my dear Gertrude,
he hath found the head

and source of all your son's

Well, I doubt it is no other
but the main,

his father's death and our
over-hasty marriage.

Well, we shall sift him.

Could you...?


Welcome, my good friend.

Say, Voltemand,
what from the King of Norway?

Most fair return of
greetings and desires.

Upon our first, he sent out to
suppress his nephew's armies;

which to him appear'd to be
a preparation against the Polish,

but better look'd into, he truly
found it was against your Highness;

whereat griev'd, that so his
sickness, age, and impotence

was falsely borne in hand,
sends out arrests on Fortinbras;

which he, in brief, obeys,

makes vow before his uncle never
more to give the assay of arms

against Your Majesty.

Whereon old Norway,
overcome with joy,

gives him commission
to employ those soldiers,

so levied as before,
against the Polish.

It likes us well;

and at our more consider'd time
we'll read, answer,

and think upon this business.

Meantime we thank you
for your well-took labour.

This business is well ended.

My liege, and madam, to expostulate
what majesty should be,

what duty is, why day is day,
night is night, and time is time.

Were nothing but to waste
night, day, and time.

since brevity is the soul of wit,

I will be brief.

Your noble son is mad.

Mad call I it;
for, to define true madness,

what is it
but to be nothing else but mad?


But let that go.

More matter, with less art.

Madam, I swear I use no art at all.

Mad let us grant him, then,

and now remains that we find out
the cause of this effect -

or rather say,
the cause of this defect,

for this effect defective
comes by cause.

Thus it remains,
and the remainder thus. Perpend.


I have a daughter -
have while she is mine -

who in her duty and obedience,
mark, hath given me this.

Now, gather and surmise.

"To the celestial,
and my soul's idol,

"the most beautified Ophelia..."

That's an ill phrase, a vile phrase;
"beautified" is a vile phrase.

But you shall hear. Thus:

"In her excellent white bosom..."

Came this from Hamlet to her?

Good madam, stay awhile.
I will be faithful.


"Doubt that the stars are fire;
doubt that the sun doth move;

"doubt truth to be a liar;
but never doubt I love.

"O dear Ophelia,
I am ill at these numbers;

"I have not art to
reckon my groans;

"but that I love thee best,
most best, believe it.

"Adieu. Thine evermore,
most dear lady,

"whilst this machine is to him,
Hamlet." Hamlet...

This, in obedience,
hath my daughter shown me;

and more above,
hath his solicitings,

as they fell out by time, by means,
and place, all given to mine ear.

But how hath she receiv'd his love?


What...? What do you think of me?

As of a man faithful and honourable.

I would fain prove so.

But what might you think, if I had
seen this hot love on the wing -

as I perceiv'd it, I must tell you
that, before my daughter told me -

what might you, or my dear Majesty
your queen here, think,

if I had given my heart a winking,
mute and dumb,

or look'd upon this love
with idle sight?

What might you think?

No, I went around to work
and my young mistress thus

I did bespeak:

"Lord Hamlet is a prince,
out of thy star.

"This must not be."

She took my advice,
and he, repulsed,

a short tale to make, fell into
the madness wherein now he raves,

and all we mourn for.

Do you think it is this?

It may be, very likely.

Hath there been such a time -
I would fain know that -

that I have positively said
"Tis so," when it prov'd otherwise?

Not that I know.

Take this from this,
if this be otherwise.


If circumstances lead me,
I will find where truth is hid,

though it were hid indeed
within the centre.

And how may we try it further?

You know sometimes he walks four
hours together, here in the lobby.

Oh, yes, so he does indeed.

At such a time,
I'll loose my daughter to him.

Be you and I behind an arras then.

Mark the encounter.


If he love her not, and be not
from his reason fall'n thereon,

let me be no assistant for a state,
but keep a farm and carters.

We will try it.

Oh, but look where sadly the poor
wretch comes.

Away, I do beseech you, both away.

I'll board him presently.

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 sleep;

no more;

and by a sleep to say

we end the heart-ache

and the thousand natural shocks

that flesh 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 coil, 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 despis'd love,
the law's delay,

the insolence of office

and the spurns that patient
merit of the unworthy takes,

when 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
no traveller returns,

puzzles the will

and makes us rather bear
those ills we have

than fly to others we know not of?

Thus conscience

does make cowards of us all;

and thus the native hue of

is sicklied o'er with
the pale cast of thought...

..and enterprises of
great pitch and moment

with this regard

their currents turn awry...

..and lose the name of action.

How does my good Lord Hamlet?

Well, God-a-mercy.

Do you know me, my lord?

Excellent well.

You are a fishmonger.

Not I, my lord.

Then I would you were
so honest a man.

Honest, my lord?

Ay, sir, for, to be honest,
as this world goes,

is to be one man pick'd
out of 10,000.

That's very true, my lord.

For if the sun breed
maggots in a dead dog,

being a god kissing carrion...

Have you a daughter?

I have, my lord.

Let her not walk in the sun.

Conception is a blessing,

but not as your daughter
may conceive.

Friend, look to't.

How say you by that?


Still harping on my daughter.

Yet he knew me not at first.
He said I was a fishmonger.


He's far gone, far gone!

And truly in my youth
I suff'red much extremity for love,

very near this.

I'll speak to him again.

What do you read, my lord?



..words, words.

What is the matter, my lord?

Between who?

I mean, the matter that you read,
my lord.

Slanders, sir; for the satirical
rogue says here that old men

have grey hair;
their faces are wrinkled;

their eyes purging thick amber
and plum-tree gum;

and that they have
a plentiful lack of wit,

together with most weak hams.


All which, sir, though I most
powerfully and potently believe,

yet I hold it not honesty to have it
thus set down;

for yourself, sir,
could be as old as I am

if, like a crab,
you could go backwards.


Though this be madness,
yet there's method in't.


Will you walk out of the air,
my lord?

Into my grave?

Indeed, that is out of the air.

How pregnant sometimes
his replies are!

I'll leave him now and contrive
the means of meeting

between him and my daughter.

My honourable lord, I will most
humbly take my leave of you.

You cannot, sir, take from me
anything that I will more

willingly part withal...


..except my life,

except my life,

except my life!


Farewell, my lord.

These tedious old fools!

You go to seek the Lord Hamlet.
There he is.

God save you, sir!

My honour'd lord!


My excellent good friends!

How dost thou, Guildenstern?

Ah, Rosencrantz!

I am very glad to see you.
How do ye both?

As the indifferent children
of the earth.

We're happy in that
we're not over-happy.

On Fortune's cap
we're not the very button.

Nor the soles of her shoe?
Neither, my lord.

Then you live about her waist,
or in the middle of her favours?

Faith, her privates we.

Ooh, in the secret parts of Fortune?

It is most true! She is a strumpet.

What's the news?

None, my lord, but that -
the world's grown honest.

Then is doomsday near,
for your news is not true.

But let me question more
in particular.

What have you, my good friends,

deserved at the hands of Fortune
that she sends you to prison hither?

Prison, my lord?

Denmark's a prison.

Then is the world one.

A goodly one; in which
there are many wards, confines,

Denmark being one o' th' worst.

We think not so, my lord.

Why, then 'tis none to you;

for there is nothing either good
or bad but thinking makes it so.

To me it is a prison.

Why, then your ambition
makes it one.

'Tis too narrow for your mind.

O God, I could be bounded
in a nutshell and count myself

a king of infinite space,
were it not that I have bad dreams.

But in the beaten way of friendship,
what make you at Elsinore?

To visit you, my lord;
no other occasion.

Beggar that I am,
I am even poor in thanks;

but I thank you.

Were you not sent for?


Is it a free visitation?

Is it your own inclining?

Come, deal justly with me.

Come, come! Nay, speak.

What should we say, my lord?
Why, anything, but to th' purpose.

You were sent for; and there is
a kind of confession in your looks,

which your modesties have not
craft enough to colour.

I know the good King and Queen
have sent for you.

To what end, my lord?

That you must teach me.

But let me conjure you
by the rights of our fellowship,

by the consonancy of our youth,

by the obligation of our
ever-preserved love,

be even and direct with me,
whether you were sent for or no.

So, what say you?

I have an eye of you.

If you love me, hold not off.

My lord, we were sent for.

I will tell you why.

So shall my anticipation
prevent your discovery,

and your secrecy to the King
and Queen moult no feather.

I have of late -

but wherefore I know not -

lost all my mirth,

forgone all custom of exercises;

and indeed, it goes so heavily
with my disposition that

this goodly frame, the earth,

seems to me a sterile promontory;

this most excellent canopy, the air,

look you,

this brave overhanging firmament,

this majestical roof
fretted with golden fire -

why, it appears
no other thing to me

than a foul and pestilent

congregation of vapours.

What a piece of work is a man...

..how noble in reason,

how infinite in faculty,

in form and moving

how express and admirable,

in action how like an angel,

in apprehension

how like a god,

the beauty of the world,

the paragon of animals.

And yet,

to me,

what is this quintessence of dust?

Man delights not me:

no, nor woman neither,

though by your smiling
you seem to say so.

My lord, there was no such stuff
in my thoughts.

Why did you laugh, then,
when I said, "Man delights not me"?

To think, my lord,
if you delight not in man,

what lenten entertainment
the players shall receive from you,

hither are they coming to
offer you service.

He that plays the King
shall be welcome.

What players are they?

Even those you were wont to
take such delight in,

the tragedians of the city.

What? How chances it they travel?

Do they hold the same estimation
they did when I was in the city?

Are they so follow'd?

No, indeed are they not.

It is not very strange;
for my uncle is the King of Denmark,

and those that would make mouths
at him while my father lived

now pay 20, 40, 50, 100 ducats
apiece for his picture in little.

You are welcome to Elsinore.


Your hands...

You are welcome,

but my uncle-father and aunt-mother
are deceiv'd.

In what, my dear lord?

I am but mad north-north-west.

When the wind is southerly,
I know a hawk from a handsaw.

Well, be with you, gentlemen!

Hark you, Guildenstern -
and you too - at each ear a hearer!

That great baby you see there -

I will prophesy he comes to tell me
of the actors. Mark it.

My lord, I have news to tell you.

"My lord, I have news to tell you."

The actors are come hither, my lord.

Buzz, buzz!

The best actors in the world,
for either tragedy, comedy,

history, pastoral,

erm, pastoral-comical,



You are welcome, masters! Woohoo!

Welcome, all!

What, my young lady and mistress?

Oh! I am very glad to see you.

What? My old friend...

Come, we'll have a speech straight.

Come, give us a taste of
your quality.

Come, a passionate speech.
What speech, my lord?

I heard thee speak me a speech
to me once, but it was never acted;

or if it was, not above once;

for the play, I remember,
pleas'd not the million,

'twas caviar to the general;

but it was - as I receiv'd it,
and others in whose judgments

in such matters cried in the top
of mine - an excellent play.

One speech in't I chiefly lov'd.

'Twas Aeneas' tale to Dido,

especially where he speaks of
Priam's slaughter.

If it live within your memory,
begin at this line -

"The rugged Pyrrhus,
like th' Hyrcanian..."

'Tis not so.

It begins with Pyrrhus:

"The rugged Pyrrhus,

"he whose sable arms,

"black as his purpose,

"did the night resemble,

"when he lay couched
in the ominous horse,

"hath now his fear and black
complexion smear'd

"with heraldry more dismal.

"Head to foot now is he total gules,

"horridly trick'd with
blood of fathers..."

"..mothers, daughters, sons,

"bak'd and impasted with
the parching streets,

"that lend a tyrannous and damned
light to their lord's murder.

"With eyes like carbuncles,

"the hellish Pyrrhus
old grandsire Priam seeks."

And so, proceed you.

Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with
good accent and good discretion.

Anon he finds him,
striking too short at Greeks.

Unequal match'd, Pyrrhus at Priam
drives, in rage strikes wide;

but with the whiff and wind
of his fell sword

th' unnerved father falls.

But now his sword, which was
declining on the milky head

of reverend Priam,
seems i' th' air to stick.

So, as a painted tyrant,
Pyrrhus stood,

and, like a neutral to
his will and matter,

did nothing.

But, as we often see
before some storm

a silence in the heavens,

the rack stand still,

the bold winds speechless,

and the orb below as hush as death -

anon the dreadful thunder
doth rend the region;

so, after Pyrrhus' pause,

aroused vengeance
sets him new at work;

and never did the Cyclops' hammers
fall on Mars's armour,

forg'd for proof eterne,

with less remorse than Pyrrhus'
bleeding sword now falls on Priam.

Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune!

All you gods, in general synod
take away her power;

break all the spokes
and fellies from her wheel,

and bowl the round nave down
the hill of heaven,

as low as to the fiends!

This is too long.


It shall be to the barber's
with your hair.

Prithee say on.

He's for a jig or a tale of bawdry,
or he sleeps.

Come to Hecuba.

But who, O who,
had seen the mobled queen...

"The mobled queen"?

That's good! "Mobled queen" is good.


Run barefoot up and down,

threat'ning the flames with
bisson rheum;

a cloth upon that head
where late the diadem stood,

and for a robe,

about her lank and all o'erteemed
loins, a blanket,

in the alarm of fear caught up -

who this had seen,
with tongue in venom steep'd

'gainst Fortune's state
would treason have pronounc'd.

But if the gods themselves
did see her now,

as she saw Pyrrhus make
malicious sport in mincing

with his sword her husband's limbs,

the instant burst of clamour
that she made -

unless things mortal
move them not at all -

would have made milch
the burning eyes of heaven

and passion in the gods.

Look, whe'r he has not turn'd
his colour. There's tears in's eyes.

I pray you, no more! 'Tis well.


We'll have thee speak
the rest out soon.

Good my lord, will you see
the players well bestow'd?

Do you hear?

Let them be well us'd;

for they are the abstract
and brief chronicles of the time.

After your death, it would be
better you had a bad epitaph

than their ill report
while you live.

My lord, I will use them
according to their desert.

Oh, God, man, much better!

Use every man after his desert,
and who shall 'scape whipping?!

Use them after your own honour
and dignity!

The less they deserve,
the more merit is in your bounty!

Take them in!

Come, sirs.

Friends, I'll leave you till night.

You are welcome to Elsinore.

Good, my lord.

Ay, so, God be with you.

Dost thou hear me, old friend?

Can you play The Murder Of Gonzago?

Ay, my lord.

You could, for a need,
study a speech of some dozen lines

or 16 lines, which I would set down
and insert in't, could you not?

Ay, my lord.

We'll have it tomorrow night.

Follow that lord,
and look you mock him not.


Now I am alone.

O, what a rogue
and peasant slave am I!

Is it not monstrous
that this player here,

but in a fiction,
in a dream of passion,

could force his soul
so to his own conceit

that from her working
all his visage wann'd,

tears in his eyes,
distraction in's aspect,

a broken voice,

and his whole function
suiting with forms to his conceit?

And all for nothing!

For Hecuba.

What's Hecuba to him...

..or he to Hecuba,

that he should weep for her?

What would he do,

had he the motive and cue
for passion that I have?

He would drown the stage with tears

and cleave the general ear
with horrid speech,

make mad the guilty
and appal the free,

confound the ignorant,
and amaze indeed

the very faculties of eyes and ears.

Yet I, a dull
and muddy-mettled rascal,

peak, like John-a-dreams,

unpregnant of my cause,

and can say nothing;

no, not for a king,

upon whose property
and most dear life

a damn'd defeat was made.

Am I a coward?

Who calls me villain?

Breaks my pate across?

Tweaks me by th' nose?

Gives me the lie i' th' throat
as deep as to the lungs?

Who does me this?
Sure, I should take it,

for it cannot be but I am
pigeon-liver'd and lack gall

to make oppression bitter,

or ere this, I should have fatted
all the region kites

with this slave's offal:

bloody, bawdy villain!

Remorseless, treacherous,
lecherous, kindless villain!

O, vengeance!

Why, what an ass am I!


This is most brave,

that I...

..the son of a dear father murder'd,

must, like a whore,
unpack my heart with words,

and fall a-cursing,
like a very drab, a stallion!

Fie upon't! Fie!

About, my brains!

I have heard that guilty creatures,

sitting at a play...

..have by the very cunning
of the scene

been so struck to the soul
that suddenly

they have proclaim'd
their malefactions.

I'll have these players play

something like the murder
of my father before my uncle.

I'll observe his looks;

I'll tent him to the quick.

If he but blench...

..I know my course.

The spirit that
I have seen may be the devil:

and the devil hath power
to assume a pleasing shape;


and perhaps out of my melancholy
and my weakness,

as he is very potent
with such spirits,

abuses me to damn me:

I'll have grounds
more relative than this.

The play's the thing

wherein I'll catch
the conscience of the King!

And can you by no
drift of conference

get from him why he puts on
this confusion,

grating so harshly
all his days of quiet

with turbulent and dangerous lunacy?

He does confess
he feels himself distracted,

but from what cause
he will by no means speak.

Nor do we find him
forward to be sounded,

but with a crafty madness
keeps aloof

when we would bring him on to some
confession of his true state.

Well, did he receive you well?

Most like a gentleman.

But with much
forcing of his disposition.

He asked no questions, and of our
demands was most free in his reply.

And did you assay him
to any pastime?

Madam, we told him of the players

and there did seem in him
a kind of joy to hear of it.

They're about the court,
and they have...

Well, as I think, they have already
order this night to play before him.

'Tis most true;
and he beseech'd me

to entreat Your Majesties
to hear and see the matter.

With all my heart, and it doth much
content me to hear him so inclin'd.

Good friends,
give him a further edge

and drive his purpose on
to these delights.

We shall, my lord.

Sweet Gertrude, leave us too;

for we have closely sent
for Hamlet hither,

that he, as it were by accident,
may here affront Ophelia.

Her father and myself -
lawful espials -

will so bestow ourselves that,
seeing unseen,

we may of their encounter
frankly judge and gather by him,

as he is behav'd, if't be
th' affliction of his love, or no,

that thus he suffers for.

I shall obey you;

and for your part, Ophelia,

I do hope that your good beauties
be the happy cause

of Hamlet's wildness.

So shall I hope your virtues shall
bring him to his wonted ways again,

to both your honours.

Madam, I wish it may.

Ophelia, walk you here.

Gracious, so please you,
we will bestow ourselves.

Ophelia, read on this book,

that show of such an exercise
may colour your loneliness.

The fair Ophelia!


..in thy orisons be
all my sins rememb'red.

Good my lord,

how does your honour
for this many a day?







My lord,
I have remembrances of yours

that I have long longed
to redeliver.

I pray you, now receive them.

No, not I! I never gave you aught.

My honour'd lord,
you know right well you did,

and with them words of
so sweet breath compos'd

as made the things more rich.

Their perfume lost,

take these again;

for to the noble mind rich gifts
wax poor when givers prove unkind.

There, my lord!

Are you honest?

My lord?

Are you fair?

What means my lordship?

That if you be honest and fair,

your honesty should admit
no discourse to your beauty.

Could beauty, my lord, have better
commerce than with honesty?

Ay, truly; for the power of beauty
will sooner transform honesty

from what it is to a bawd
than the force of honesty can

translate beauty into his likeness.

This was sometime a paradox...

..but the time gives it proof.

I did love you...


Indeed, my lord,
you made me believe so.

You should not have believ'd me;

I loved you not.

I was the more deceived.

Get thee to a nunnery!

Why wouldst thou be
a breeder of sinners?

I am myself indifferent honest,

yet I could accuse me of such things
it would be better

my mother had not borne me.

I am very proud, revengeful,

with more offences at my beck than
I have thoughts to put them in,

imagination to give them shape,
or time to act them in.

We are arrant knaves all;
believe none of us.

Go thy ways to a nunnery,
and quickly too.

Where's your father?

At home, my lord.

Well, let the doors be
shut upon him,

that he may act the fool
nowhere but in his own house.




If thou dost marry, I'll give thee
this plague for thy dowry:

be thou as chaste as ice,

as pure as snow,

thou shalt not escape calumny.

Get thee to a nunnery.

Or if thou wilt needs marry,
marry a fool;

for wise men know well enough
what monsters you make of them.


Heavenly powers, restore him!

Can you just stop it now, please?!

Ah! I have heard of your
paintings too, well enough.

God has given you one face,
and you make yourselves another!

You jig, you amble, and you lisp;

you nickname God's creatures

and make your wantonness
your ignorance.

Go to, I'll no more of it!

It's made me mad.

I say, there's to be
no more marriages!

Those that are married already -

all but one -

shall live;

the rest shall keep as they are.

To a nunnery, go!

O, what a noble mind is here

The courtier's, soldier's,
scholar's, eye, tongue, sword;

the expectation and the rose of
the fair state,

the glass of fashion,

the mould of form,

the observ'd of all observers,

quite, quite down!

And I, of ladies most deject
and wretched,

that suck'd the honey
of his music vows,

now see that noble and most
sovereign reason,

like sweet bells jangled,
out of time and harsh;

that unmatch'd form and feature
of blown youth

blasted with ecstasy.

And woe is me, to have seen
what I have seen,

see what I see.


His affections do not that way tend;

nor what he spake, though it lack'd
form a little, was not like madness.

There is something in his soul over
which his melancholy sits on brood;

and I do fear the hatch and the
disclose will be some danger:

which for to prevent,

I have in quick determination
thus set it down:

he shall with speed to England.

Haply the seas, and countries
different, with variable objects,

shall expel this something-settled
matter in his heart,

whereon his brains still beating
puts him thus

from fashion of himself.

What think you on't?

It shall do well.

But yet do I believe the origin
and commencement of his grief

sprung from neglected love.

How now, Ophelia?

You need not tell us
what Lord Hamlet said.

We heard it all.

My lord, do as you please;

but if you hold it fit,
after the play let his queen mother

all alone entreat him
to show his grief.

Let her be round with him;

and I'll be plac'd, so please you,
in the ear of all their conference.

If she find him not,
to England send him;

or confine him
where your wisdom best shall think.

It shall be so.

Madness in great ones
must not unwatch'd go.

Speak the speech, I pray you,

as I pronounc'd it to you,
trippingly on the tongue.

But if you mouth it,
as many of your players do,

I had as lief the town crier
spoke the lines.

Nor do not saw the air too much
with your hands, thus,

but use all gently;
for in the very torrent, tempest,

and, as I may say,
whirlwind of your passion,

you must acquire
and beget a temperance

that may give it smoothness.

O, it offends me to the soul to hear
some robustious periwig-pated

fellow tear a passion to tatters,

to very rags,

to split the ears of
the groundlings,

who, for the most part,

are capable of nothing
but inexplicable dumb-shows...

..and noise.

Pray you avoid it.

I warrant your honour.

Be not too tame neither,

but let your own discretion
be your tutor:

suit the action to the word,
the word to the action;

with this special observance,

that you overstep not
the modesty of nature:

for anything so overdone
is from the purpose of playing,

whose end,
both at the first and now,

was and is, to hold,

as 'twere, the mirror up to nature;

to show Virtue her feature,

Scorn her image,

and the very age
and body of the time

his form and pressure.

Now, this overdone,
or come tardy off,

though it make the unskilful laugh,

cannot but make
the judicious grieve;

the censure of the which
one must in your allowance

overweigh a whole theatre of others.

O, go, make you ready.

Sir, will the King hear
this piece of work?

And the Queen too,
and that presently.

Well, bid the players make haste.

Horatio! Here, my lord.

Horatio, thou art even as just a man

as e'er my conversation
cop'd withal.

O, my dear lord!

Nay, do not think I flatter;

for what advancement
may I hope from thee,

that no revenue hast
but thy good spirits

to feed and clothe thee?


Dost thou hear?

Since my dear soul was
mistress of her choice

and could of men distinguish,

her election she hath
seal'd thee for herself.

For thou hast been as one,

in suff'ring all,

that suffers nothing;

a man who Fortune's
buffets and rewards

hast ta'en with equal thanks;

and blest are those
whose blood and judgment

are so well commingled

that they are not a pipe
for Fortune's finger

to sound what stop she please.

Give me the man that is not
passion's slave, and...

..I will wear him
in my heart's core,

ay, in my heart of hearts,

as I do thee.

Something too much of this.

The King is coming to the play.

One speech in it
comes near the circumstance,

which I have told thee,
of my father's death.

I prithee,
when thou seest that act afoot...


..even with the very comment of
thy soul, observe my uncle.

If his occulted guilt do not itself
unkennel in one speech,

it is a damned ghost
that we have seen,

and my imaginations are as hellish
as foul black night.

Give him heedful note;

for I mine eyes will rivet
to his face,

and after we will both our judgments
join in censure of his seeming.

My lord, if he steal aught the
whilst this play is playing,

and scape detecting,
I will pay the theft.

So, they're coming to the play.

I must be idle.

Get thee a place.


How fares our cousin Hamlet?

Excellent, i' faith,
of the chameleon's dish.

I eat the air, promise-crammed.

You would not feed capons so.

I have nothing with
this answer, Hamlet.

These words are not mine.

No, nor mine now.

My lord, you once played
in the university, you say?

That did I, my lord,
and was accounted a good actor.

What did you enact?

I did enact Julius Caesar.

I was killed at the Capitol.

Brutus killed me.

Et tu, Brute?!

Then fall, Caesar.



Are the players ready?

Come hither, my dear Hamlet,
sit by me.

No, good madam.


Here's metal more attractive.

Do you mark that?

Lady, shall I lie in your lap?

No, my lord.

I mean, my head upon your lap?

Ay, my lord.

Did you think I meant
country matters?

I think nothing, my lord.

That's a fair thought
to lie between maids' legs.

What is, my lord?


You are merry, my lord.

Who, I? Ay, my lord.

What should a man do but be merry?

For, look you,
how cheerfully my mother looks, huh?

And my father died within
these two hours.

Nay, 'tis twice two months, my lord.

So long? Died two months
and not forgotten yet?


Then there's hope a great man's
memory may outlive his life

half a year.

What means Your Lordship?


MUSIC: One Too Many Mornings
by Bob Dylan


# Down the street
the dogs are barkin'

# And the day is a-gettin' dark

# As the night comes in a-fallin'

# The dogs lose their bark

# And the silent night will shatter

# From the sounds inside my mind

# Yes, I'm one too many mornings

# And a thousand miles behind

# From the crossroads of my doorstep

# My eyes start to fade

# And I turn my head
back to the room

# Where my love and I have laid

# And I gaze back to the street

# The sidewalk and the sign

# And I'm one too many mornings

# And a thousand miles behind

# It's a restless hungry feeling

# That don't mean no-one no good

# When everything I'm a-sayin'

# You can say it just as good

# You're right from your side

# And I'm right from mine

# We're both just
one too many mornings

# And a thousand miles behind... #

Full thirty years have passed
and summers green,

and thirty dozen moons
with borrowed sheen,

since love our hearts
and Hymen did our hands

unite commutual in most
sacred bands.

So many journeys may the
sun and moon make us again

count o'er, ere love be done.

But woe is me,
you are so sick of late,

so far from cheer and from your
former state that I distrust you.

Yet though I distrust,

discomfort you, my lord,
you nothing must.

For women's fear and love
hold quantity,

in neither aught, or in extremity.

Now what my love is,
proof hath made you know,

and as my love is sized,
my fear is so:

where love is great,
the littlest doubts are fear.

Where little fears grow great,

great love grows there.

Faith, I must leave thee, love,
and shortly too.

My operant powers their
functions cease to do.

And thou shalt live in
this fair world behind,

honoured, beloved,
and haply one as kind,

for husband shalt thou...
O, confound the rest!

Such love must needs be
treason in my breast.

In second husband
let me be accursed!

None wed the second
but who killed the first.

That's wormwood.

The instances that
second marriage move

are base respects of thrift,

but none of love.

A second time I kill my husband dead

when second husband
kisses me in bed.

I do believe you think what
now you speak,

but what we do determine
oft we break.

Purpose is but the slave to memory,

of violent birth, but poor validity,

which now, like fruit unripe,
sticks on the tree,

but fall, unshaken,
when they mellow be.

What to ourselves in passion
we propose,

the passion ending,
doth the purpose lose.

The violence of either grief or joy

their own enactures
with themselves destroy.

This world is not forever.

'Tis not strange that even our loves
should with our fortunes change.

The great man down,
you mark his favourite flies.

The poor advanced makes
friends of enemies.

And who in want a hollow friend doth
try, directly seasons him his enemy.

But, orderly to end where I begun,

our wills and fates
do so contrary run

that our devices still
are overthrown.

Our thoughts are ours,
their ends none of our own.

So think thou wilt
no second husband wed,

but die thy thoughts
when thy first lord is dead.

Nor earth to me give food,
nor heaven light.

Sport and repose lock from me
day and night.

To desperation turn my trust
and hope.

A hermit's cheer in prison
be my scope.

Each opposite that blanks
the face of joy

meet what I would have well
and it destroy.

Both here and hence
pursue me lasting strife

if, once a widow, ever I be wife!

'Tis deeply sworn.

Sweet, leave me here awhile.

My spirits grow dull,

and fain I would beguile
the tedious day with sleep.

Sleep rock thy brain,

and never come mischance
between us twain.

Madam, how like you the play?

The lady doth protest too much,

Oh, but she'll keep her word.

Have you heard the argument?
Is there no offence in it?

No, they do but jest.

Poison in jest.

No offence in the world.
What do you call the play?

The Mousetrap.

How? Metaphorically.

'Tis the image of a murder
done in Vienna.

'Tis a knavish piece of work,
but what of that?

Your Majesty and we that have
free souls,

it touches us not.

This is one Lucianus,
nephew to the king.

You shall see anon how the murderer
gets the love of the old man's wife.

Thoughts black,

hands apt,

drugs fit,

and time agreeing,

Confederate season,
else no creature seeing,

thou mixture rank,

of midnight weeds collected,

with Hecate's ban thrice blasted,

thrice infected...

..thy natural magic
and dire property

on wholesome life usurp.



Didst perceive? Very well, my lord.

Upon the talk of poison?
I did very well note him.

Would this not get me a share
in a fellowship of actors?

Half a share.

A whole one.

I'll take the ghost's word
for £1,000.

My lord, vouchsafe me
a word with you.

Sir, a whole history.

The King, sir...
Ay, sir, what of him?

..is in his retirement
marvellous distempered.

With drink, sir?
No, my lord, rather with anger.

Your wisdom should
show itself more richer

to signify this to his doctor.

My lord, put your discourse
into some frame,

start not so wildly from my affair.
I am tame, sir. Pronounce!

The Queen, your mother, in most
great affliction of spirit

have sent me to you.
You are welcome.

Nay, my lord, this courtesy
is not of the right breed.

If it will please you to make
me a wholesome answer,

I will do your mother's commandment.

If not, your pardon and my return
shall be the end of my business.

Well, I cannot. What?

Make you a wholesome answer,
my wit's diseased

but such answer as I can make,
you shall command or, as you say,

my mother. Therefore no more but to
the matter, my mother, you say.

Then thus she says your behaviour
have struck her into amazement,

admiration. Oh, wonderful son
that can so astonish a mother,

but is there no sequel at the heels
of this mother's admiration?

She desires to speak with you
in her closet ere you go to bed.

We shall we obey, were
she ten times our mother.

Have you any further trade with us?

My lord...

..you once did love me.

So I do still...

..by these pickers and stealers.

My lord, what is your
cause of distemper?

You do surely bar the door
to your own liberty

if you deny your griefs
to your friend.


..I lack advancement.

How can that be? You have the voice
of the king himself

for your succession in Denmark.

Aye, sir, but while
the grass grows...

The proverb is something musty.

Why do you go about to
recover the wind of me

as if you would drive me
into a toil?

Oh, my lord, if my duty be too
bold, my love is too unmannerly.

I do not well understand that.

Will you play upon this pipe?

My lord, I cannot.
I pray you.

Believe me, I cannot.
I do beseech you.

I know no touch of it, my lord.

'Tis as easy as lying.

Govern these ventages
with your fingers and thumb,

give it breath with your mouth
and it will discourse

most eloquent music.
Look, you, these are the stops.

But these cannot I command to
any utterance of harmony.

I have not the skill.

Why, look you now, how unworthy
a thing you make of me.

You would play upon me.

You would seem to know my stops.

You would pluck out
the heart of my mystery.

You would sound me from my lowest
note to the top of my compass

and there is much music,

excellent voice
in this little organ,

yet cannot you make it speak.

Do you think I am easier
to be played on than a pipe?

Call me what instrument you will,
though you can fret me,

you cannot play upon me.
God bless you, sir.

My lord, the Queen would speak
with you and presently.

Do you see yonder cloud

that's almost in
the shape of a camel?

The mast is like a camel indeed.

Me thinks it is like a weasel.

Yeah, 'tis backed like a weasel.

Or like a whale.

Yep, very like a whale.

And I will come to
my mother by and by.

They fool me to the top of my bent.


I will say so.



It is now the very witching time of
night when churchyards yawn

and hell itself breathes out
contagion to this world.

Now could I drink hot blood

and do such bitter business as the
day would quake to look on!

Soft, now, to my mother,

..lose not thy nature.

Let me be cruel, not unnatural.

I will speak daggers
to her but use none.

I like him not,
nor stands it safe with us

to let his madness range
therefore prepare you,

I your commission will
forthwith dispatch

and he to England
shall along with you.

The terms of our estate may
not endure hazard so dangerous

as to hourly grow
out of his lunacies.

We will ourselves provide.

Most holy and religious fear
it is to keep those many,

many bodies safe that live
and feed upon Your Majesty.

The single and peculiar life
is bound with all the strength

and armour of the mind to keep
itself from noyance,

but much more that spirit
upon whose wheel depend

and rest the lives of many. Arm you,
I pray you, for this speedy voyage.

For we will fetters
put upon this fear

which now goes too free-footed.
And we will haste thus.

My lord, he's going
to his mother's closet.

Behind the arras I'll convey myself
to hear the process.

I'll warrant she'll tax him home.

Fare you well, my liege.

I'll call upon you where you go
to bed and tell you what I know.

Thanks, dear my lord.


My offence is rank.

It smells to heaven,

it hath the primal eldest
curse upon it.

A brother's murder.


Pray can I not, though inclination
be as sharp as will,

my stronger guilt
defeats my strong intent

and, like a man to double
business bound,

I stand in pause
where I shall first begin

and both neglect.

What if this cursed hand were
thicker than itself

with brother's blood, is there not
rain enough in the sweet heavens

to wash it white as snow?

Whereto serves mercy but to
confront the visage of offence?

And what's in prayer
but this twofold force,

to be forestalled before we come to
fall or pardoned being down?

And I'll look up, my fault is past.

But, O, what form of prayer...

..can serve my turn?

"Forgive me my foul murder"?

That cannot be, since I am still
possessed of those effects for

which I did the murder -
my crown, my own ambition and...

..my queen.

May one be pardoned
and retain the offence?

In the corrupted currents of
this world offence's gilded hand

may shove by justice and often
it's seen the wicked prize itself

buys out the law,
but it is not so above.

There is no...

shuffling there, the action
lies in his true nature

and we ourselves compelled,
even to the teeth

and forehead of our faults,
to give in evidence.

So, 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 ensnared.

Help, angels!

Make assay.

Bow, stubborn knees;
and, heart with strings of steel,

be soft as sinews
of the new-born babe.

All may be well.

Now might I do it pat,
now he is praying

and now I'll do it

and so he goes to heaven,
and so am I revenged.

That would be scanned.

A villain kills my father
and for that, I, his sole son,

do this same villain send to heaven.


..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 am I then revenged, to take him
in the purging of his soul,

when he is fit and seasoned
for his passage?

No. When he's drunk, asleep
or in his rage,

or in the incestuous pleasure
of his bed;

then trip him, that his
heels may kick at heaven

and that his soul may be as damned
and black as hell, whereto it goes.

My mother stays: this physic
but prolongs thy sickly days.

My words fly up,

my thoughts remain below.

Words without thoughts
never to heaven go.


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 screened
and stood between much heat and him.

I'll silence me even here.
Pray you be round with him.

I'll warrant you, fear me not.

Withdraw, I hear him coming.

Now, Mother, what's the matter?

Hamlet, thou hast thy
father much offended.

Mother, you have my
father much offended.

Oh, come, come,
you answer with an idle tongue.

Go, go, you question
with a wicked tongue.

Why, how now, Hamlet?
What's the matter now?

Have you forgot me?
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.

No, then I'll set those
to you that can speak.

Go, go, sit you down!

You shall not budge!

Till I set you up a glass where
you may see the inmost part of you.

Why, what will you do?


No. You will not murder me?

Help! Help! HELP!

What? How now, a rat?


What have you done?

Nay, I know not.

Is it the King? Oh, what a rash
and bloody deed is this!

A bloody deed, almost as bad,
good Mother, as kill a king,

and marry with his brother.

As kill a king?
Aye, lady, 'twas my word.


Thou wretched, rash,

intruding fool, farewell!

I took thee for thy better.

Leave wringing of your hands. Peace!

Sit down!

Let me wring your heart,
for so I shall

if it be made of penetrable stuff.

What have I done, that thou darest
wag thy tongue

in noise so rude against me?

Such an act that blurs the grace
and blush of modesty,

calls virtue hypocrite,

takes off the rose off the
fair forehead of an innocent love

and sets a blister there,
makes marriage vows

as false as dicers' oaths.

Heaven's face doth glow, yeah,
this solidity and compound mass

with tristful visage
is thought-sick at the act.

Aye, me, what act that roars so
loud and thunders in the index?

Look here...

..upon this picture and on this.

The counterfeit presentment
of two brothers.

See what a grace was seated on
this brow; Hyperion's curls,

the front of Jove himself,

an eye like Mars to threaten
and command,

a combination and a form indeed,

where every god did seem
to set his seal

to give the world
assurance of a man.

This was your husband.

Look you now, what follows.

Here is your husband;

like a mildewed ear,

blasting his wholesome brother.

Have you eyes?

Could you on this fair mountain
leave to feed

and batten on this moor?

Have you eyes? You cannot
call it love; for at your age

the heyday in the blood is tame,
it's humble, and waits upon

the judgment, and what judgment
would step from this to this?

Sense, sure you have,
or you would not have motion,

but sure, that sense is apoplexed;
for madness would not err,

nor sense to ecstasy was ne'er
so thralled

but it reserved some quantity
of choice,

to serve in such a difference.

What devil was it that thus hath
cozen'd you at hoodman-blind?

Eyes without feeling,
feeling without sight

or but a sickly part of one
true sense could not so mope.

Shame, where is thy blush?
Hamlet, speak no more!

Thou turn'st mine eyes
into my very soul.

And there I see such
black and grained spots

as will not leave their tinct.

Nay! Oh! But to live in the

rank sweat of an enseamed bed,

honeying and making love

over the nasty sty!

Oh, speak to me no more!

These words, like daggers,
enter in mine ears.

No more, sweet Hamlet! A murderer!

And a villain!

Not twentieth part the tithe
of thy precedent lord,

a vice of kings,
a cutpurse of the empire

that from a shelf
the precious diadem stole,

and put it in his pocket! No more!

A king of shreds and patches!

Save me and hover over me with
your wings, you heavenly guards.

What would your gracious figure?
Alas, he is mad!

Do you not come your tardy son
to chide, that lapsed in time

and passion lets go by the important
acting of your dread command?

Say! Do not forget:

this visitation is but to whet
thy almost blunted purpose.

But, look, amazement on
thy mother sits.

Speak to her, Hamlet.

How is it with you, lady?

Alas, how is it with you?

You do bend your eye on vacancy...

..and with the encorporal air
do hold discourse?

Forth at your eyes
your spirits wildly peep.

Gentle son, upon the heat
and flame of thy distemper

sprinkle cool patience.

Whereon do you look?
On him, on him!

Look you, how pale he glares.

His form and cause conjoined,
preaching to stones,

would make them capable.
Do not look upon me,

lest with this piteous action
you convert my stern effects.

Then what I have to do
will want true colour,

tears perchance for blood.

To whom do you speak this?

Do you see nothing there?


Nothing at all.

But all there is I see.

Nor nothing do you hear?


Nothing but ourselves.
Why, look you there!

CRYING: My father.

In his habit as he lived!

Look, you, how he goes even now.


This is the very coinage
of your brain.

This bodiless creation ecstasy
is very cunning in.


My pulse as yours
doth temperately keep time

and makes as healthful music.

It is not madness that I have
uttered. Bring me to the test,

and I the matter will reword
which madness would gambol from.

Mother, for love of grace,
lay not that flattering unction

to your soul, that not your trespass
but my madness speaks.

It will but skin
and film the ulcerous place

whilst rank corruption,
mining all within, infects unseen.

Repent what's past,

avoid what is to come

and do not spread the compost
on the weeds to make them ranker.

O, Hamlet,

thou hast cleft my heart in twain.

Well, throw away the worser part
of it,

and live the purer
with the other half.

Good night, Mother. No...
But go not to my uncle's bed.

Assume a virtue, if you have it not.

That monster, custom, who all
sense doth eat of habits devil,

is angel yet in this and to
the use of actions fair and good

he likewise gives a frock
and livery that aptly is put on.

Refrain tonight,

and that shall lend a kind of
easiness to the next abstinence:

the next more easy;

for use can almost change the stamp
of nature,

and either shame the devil,

or throw him out
with wondrous potency.

So, again, goodnight, Mother.

And when you are desirous
to be bless'd...

..I'll blessing beg of you.


For this same lord, I do repent...

..but heaven hath pleased it so,

to punish me with this
and this with me,

that I must be their scourge
and minister.

I will bestow him,
and will answer well

the death I gave him.

So, again, good night, Mother.

I must be cruel only to be kind...

..thus bad begins

and worse remains behind.

One word more, good lady.
What should I do?

Not this, by no means,
as I bid you do,

let the blunt King tempt you
again to bed,

call you his mouse, pinch wanton
on your cheeks and let him

for a pair of reechy kisses
or paddling in your neck

with his damned fingers,

make you to ravel all
this matter out,

that I essentially...

..am not in madness...

..but mad in craft.

Be thou assured...

..if words be made of breath,
and breath of life...

..I have no life to breathe

what thou have said to me.

I must to England.

Oh. You know that?

Alas, I'd forgot!
'Tis so concluded on.

There's letters sealed

and my two schoolfellows...

..whom I will trust as I will
adders fanged,

they bear the mandate.

Let it work.

For 'tis the sport
to have the engineer

hoist with his own petard.

This man shall send me packing.


I'll lug the guts
into the neighbour room.

Indeed, this counsellor
is now most still,

most secret and most grave,

who was, in life...

..a foolish prating knave.

Come, sir.

To draw toward an end with you.

Good night...



Oh, G...


No, no...


There's matter in these sighs.
I can't, I can't...

These profound heaves
you must translate,

'tis fit we understand.
Where is your son?

Bestow this place
on us a little while.

Oh, my good lord,

what have I seen tonight!
What, Gertrude?

How does Hamlet?

Mad as the sea and wind,

when both contend
which is the mightier.

In his lawless fit, behind the
arras hearing something stir,

pulls out his weapon,
cries, "A rat, a rat!"

And in this brainish apprehension

kills the unseen good old man.

O heavy deed!

It had been so with us,
had we been there.

His liberty is full of threats
to all; to you yourself,

to us, to everyone.

Alas, how shall this bloody deed
be answered?

It will be laid to us.

Where is he gone?

To draw apart the body he hath
slain over whom his very madness,

like some ore among a mineral
of metals base, shows itself pure.

He weeps for what he's done.
Oh, Gertrude, come away!

The sun no sooner shall
the mountains touch,

but we will ship him hence.

This vile deed we must,

with all our majesty and skill,

both countenance...

..and excuse. Ho, Guildenstern!

Friends both, go join you
with some further aid.

Hamlet, in madness,
hath Polonius slain,

and from his mother's closet hath
he dragged him. Go seek him out,

speak fair, bring the body into the
chapel. I pray you haste in this!

Come, Gertrude,

we'll call up our wisest friends
and let them know both

what we mean to do and
what's untimely done.

Come away!

My soul is full of
discord and dismay.


Safely stowed.

What have you done, my lord,
with the dead body?

Compounded it with dust...

..whereto 'tis kin.

Tell us where it is, that we may
take it and bear it to the chapel.

Do not believe it. Believe what?
That I can keep your counsel

and not mine own.

Besides, to be demanded of a sponge,

what reply should be made
by the son of a king?

Take you me for a sponge, my lord?

Aye, sir, that soaks up the
King's countenance, his rewards,

his authorities.

But such officers do the King
best service in the end:

he keeps them, like an ape doth

in the corner of his jaw;
first mouthed, to be last swallowed.

When he needs what you
have gleaned for him,

it is but squeezing...

..and, sponge,

you shall be dry...


I understand you not.
I am glad of it.

My lord, you must tell us where the
body is and go with us to the King.

The body is with the King,

but the King is not with the body.

The King is a thing...

A thing, my lord? ..of nothing.




How dangerous is it that
this man goes loose,

yet must not we put
the strong law on him.

He's loved of the
distracted multitude

who like not in their judgment,
but their eyes

and where it is so the penalty is
weighed but never the offence.

To bear all smooth and even,
this sudden sending him away

must seem deliberate pause.
How now, what hath befallen?

Where the dead body is bestowed,
my lord, we cannot get from him!

Now, Hamlet,

where's Polonius?

At supper.

At supper. Where?

Not where he eats,

but where he's eaten.

A certain convocation of
politic worms are at him.

Your worm is your
only emperor for diet.

We fat all creatures else to fat us,

and we fat ourselves for maggots.

That's the end. Alas, alas!

A man may fish with the worm
that hath eat of a king

and eat of the fish

that hath fed off that worm.
What do you mean by this?

Nothing but to show you how
a king may go a progress

through the guts of a beggar.
Where is Polonius?

In heaven. Send thither to see.

But if your messenger find him
not there...

..seek him in the other place...


But if you find him
not within a month,

you shall nose him as you go
upstairs, into the lobby.

Go seek him there. Oh...

He will stay until you come.

Hamlet, this deed,
for thine especial safety,

which we do tender, as
we dearly grieve for that

which thou hast done, must send
thee hence with fiery quickness,

therefore prepare thyself...

..for England. For England?

Aye, Hamlet. Good.

So is it, if thou knewest
our purposes.

I see an angel...

that sees them.



..for England!

Farewell, dear Mother.

Thy loving father, Hamlet.

Mother and father is man and wife,

man and wife is one flesh, so...


But come...

HIGH-PITCHED VOICE: ..for England!

Follow him at foot,
tempt him with speed aboard.

Delay it not, I'll have him hence
tonight. Your Majesty... Away!

Everything is sealed and done
that else leans on the affair.

Pray you, make haste.

And, England, if my love thou
hold'st at aught

as my great power thereof
may give thee sense,

thou mayst not coldly set
our sovereign process,

which imports at full, by letters
congruing to that effect,

the present death...

..of Hamlet.

Do it, England.

For like the hectic
in my blood he rages

and thou must cure me.

Till I know it is done,

what err my chance,
my joys were never begun.

I greet the Danish king,
King Claudius.

Tell him that by his licence,
Fortinbras claims

the conveyance of a promised
march over his kingdom.

You know the rendezvous.

If that His Majesty
would aught with us,

we shall express our duty
in his eye and let him know so.

Whose soldiers are these?

They are of Norway, sir.
How purposed?

Against some part of Poland.
Who commands them?

The nephew to old Norway,

Go they against the main of
Poland, or by some frontier?

Truly to speak, and
with no addition,

they go to gain a little patch
of ground that hath in it

no more profit but the name.

To pay five ducats, five,
I would not farm it.

Why, then, they never will defend
it. Yeah, it is already garrisoned.

2,000 souls and 20,000 ducats
will not debate the question

of this straw.

Thank you, sir.

God be with you, sir.

Will it please you go, my lord?
I'll be with you straight.


..all occasions do inform
against me...

..and spur my dull revenge!

What is a man, if his chief
good and market of his time

be but to sleep and feed?

A beast...

..no more.

Sure he that made us with
such large discourse,

looking before and after...

..gave us not that capability
and godlike reason

to fust in us unused.

Now, whether it be bestial oblivion

or some craven scruple of thinking

too precisely on the event,

a thought which quartered
hath but one part wisdom

and ever three parts coward...

..I do not know...

..why yet I live to say
"this thing's to do,"

since I have cause

and will and strength

and means to do it.

Examples gross as earth exhort me.

Witness this army of
such mass and charge

led by a delicate and tender

whose spirit with divine ambition

makes mouths at the invisible

exposing what is mortal and unsure
to all that fortune,

death and danger dare,
even for an eggshell.

Rightly to be great is not
to stir without great argument,

but greatly to find quarrel in a
straw when honour's at the stake.

How stand I then, that have a
father killed, a mother stained,

excitements of my reason
and my blood and let all sleep,

while to my shame I see the
imminent death of 20,000 men

who, for a fantasy
and trick of fame,

go to their graves like beds,

fight for a plot

wherein the numbers
cannot try the cause,

which is not tomb enough
and continent

to hide the slain?

O, from this time forth...


I will not speak with her.

She is importunate,

indeed distract.

Her mood will needs be pitied.
What would she have?

'Twere good she were spoken with,
for she may strew

dangerous conjectures
in ill-breeding minds.

Let her come in.

To my sick soul...

..as sin's true nature is,

each toy seems prologue
to some great amiss.

So full of artless jealousy
is guilt,

it spills itself
in fearing to be spilt.

Where is the beauteous
Majesty of Denmark?


..how now, Ophelia?

# How should I
your true-love know

# From another one? #

Alas, sweet lady...

..what imports this song? Say you?

Nay, pray you mark.

# He is dead and gone, lady

# He is dead and gone

# At his head a grass-green turf

# At his heels stone. #

Nay, but Ophelia...

Pray you mark.

She speaks much of her father.

Says she hears there's
tricks in the world and coughs

and beats her heart.
Alas, look here, my lord!

How do you, pretty lady?

Well, we know what we are,
but we know not what we may be.

Conceit upon her father.

Pray let's have no words of this,
but when they ask you

what it means, say you this.

# Tomorrow is St Valentine's Day

# All the morn' bedtime

# And I a maid at your window

# To be your Valentine

# Then up he rose
put on his clothes

# And shut the chamber door

# Let in the maid
that out the maid

# Never departed more. #

Pretty Ophelia...
I will make an end on it!

# She said before you tumbled me

# You promised me to wed

# So I would've done by yonder sun

# If you'd not come to my bed. #

How long hath she been thus?

I hope all will be well.

We must be patient.

But I cannot choose but weep
to think they should lay him

in the cold ground.

My brother will know of it...

..so I thank you
for your good counsel.

Come, my coach.

Goodnight, ladies.
Goodnight, sweet ladies.

Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight,
goodnight, goodnight...!

This is the poison of deep grief.

It springs all
from her father's death.

Gertrude, Gertrude, when sorrows
come, they come not single spies,

but in battalions!

First, her father slain,
next, your son gone

and he most violent author
of his own just remove,

the people muddied, thick
and unwholesome in their thoughts

and whispers for good
Polonius' death and

we have done but greenly
to bury him in secret.

Poor Ophelia divided from herself
and her fair judgment,

without the which we are
pictures or mere beasts.

Hide yourself, my lord. The ocean,
overpeering of his list,

eats not the flats
with more impetuous haste

than young Laertes, in a riotous
head, overbears your offices.

Where is this king?

Give me my father!
Calmy, good Laertes.

That drop of blood that's
calm proclaims me bastard,

cries "Cuckold!" to my father,
brands the harlot even here

between the chaste unsmirched
brows of my true mother.

What is the cause, Laertes, that
thy rebellion look so giant-like?

Let him go, Gertrude. Tell me,
Laertes, why thou art thus incensed.

Let him go, Gertrude!
Speak, man.

Where's my father?

Dead. But not by him!
Let him demand his fill.

How came he dead?

I'll not be juggled with!

To hell, allegiance!

Vows to the blackest devil!

I dare damnation to this point
I stand, let come what comes,

only I'll be revenged most
thoroughly for my father.

And who shall stop you?
Not all the world. Good Laertes,

if you desire to know the certainty
of your dear father's death,

is it writ in your revenge
that, swoopstake, you will draw

friend and foe, winner and loser?
None but his enemies.

Will you know them, then?
To his good friends thus wide

I'll open my arms. Why, now
you speak like a good child

and a true gentleman that I am
guiltless of your father's death

and am most sensibly
in grief for it.

It shall as level to your judgment
pierce as day does to your eye.


Let her come in.

Oh, heat, dry up my brains!

Tears seven times salt,

burn out the sense
and virtue of mine eye!

Dear maid...

..kind sister...

..sweet Ophelia!

O heavens, is it possible?

Fare you well, my dove.

There's rosemary...

..that's for remembrance.
Pray, love, remember.

There's pansies,
that's for thoughts.

There's fennel for you
and columbines...

and there's rue for you
and here's some for me.

We may call it
herb-grace on Sundays.

You must wear your rue with
a difference.

There's a daisy.

I would give you some violets,

but they withered all
when my father died.

Shh, shh, shh.

Shh, shh, shh.

They say he made a good end.

Will he not come again?

Will he not come again?

No, no, he is dead, go to thy
deathbed, he never will come again,

he is gone.

He is gone.

He is gone, he is gone.

And we cast away moan.

Do you see this?

O, God. Laertes,
I must commune with your grief

or you deny me right. Go but apart,

if by direct or by collateral hand
you find us touched,

we will our kingdom give, our crown,
our life, all that we call ours,

to you in satisfaction; but if not,

be you content to lend
your patience to us,

and we shall jointly labour with
your soul to give it due content.

Let this be so. His means of death,
his obscure funeral.

No noble rite nor formal
ostentation, cry to be heard,

as 'twere from heaven to earth
that I must call it in question.

So you shall, where the offence is
let the great axe fall.

I pray you, come with me.

Madam, madam, your son
is safe arrived in Denmark.

This letter I even now received
of him where in he writes how

he escaped the danger and the subtle
treason that the King had plotted.

He found a packet sent to the
King of England where in he saw

himself betrayed to death.

So truly...

..there is treason in the kingdom.

He seemed to sugar
over his villainy.

But I must soothe and please him
for a while,

for murderous minds
are always jealous.

But know you not, Horatio,
where Hamlet is?

Yes, madam, and he has appointed me
to meet him on the east side

of the city tomorrow morning.
Oh, fail not, good Horatio.

And will thou commend me
a mother's love to him,

but bid him be wary of his presence,

lest he fail in that he goes about.

I think by this the news become
to court Hamlet returns.

Observe the King

and you shall quickly
find Hamlet being here

things fell not to his plan.

Thanks be to heaven
for blessing of the Prince.

Once more, Horatio, I take my leave,

but with a thousand mother's
blessings to my son!

Madam, adieu.

Now must your conscience
my acquittance seal

and you must put me in your heart
for friend,

since he who hath your noble father
slain pursued my life.

It well appears, nut tell me why you
proceeded not against these feats

so crimeful and so capital
in nature, as by your safety,

wisdom, all things else,
you mainly were stirred up.

O, for two special reasons,

which may perhaps to you
seem much unsinewed...

..yet to me they're strong.

The Queen, his mother,

lives almost by his looks.

And for myself, my virtue or my
plague, be it either which...

..she's so conjunctive
to my life and soul...

..that as the star moves not
but in his sphere, I could not...

..but by her.

The other motive, why to
a public court I might not go,

is the great love
the general public bear him.

And so have I a noble father lost.

A sister driven into
desperate terms.

But my revenge will come.

You must not think that we are made
of stuff so flat and dull.

I loved your father.

And we love ourself and that, I
hope, may teach you to imagine...

How now? What news?

Letters, my lord,

from Hamlet.

From Hamlet?

This to Your Majesty,
this to the Queen.

Leave us.

"High and Mighty, you shall know
I am set naked on your kingdom.

"Tomorrow shall I beg leave
to see your kingly eyes,

"when I shall, first asking
your pardon thereunto,

"recount the occasion of my sudden
and more strange return. Hamlet."

Know you the hand?
It's Hamlet's character.

Well, I'm lost in it, my lord.
But let him come!

It warms the very sickness
in my heart that I may live

and tell him to his teeth,
"Thus diest thou."

Laertes, if this be so,
how should it be so...

..how otherwise,
will you be ruled by me?

Aye, my lord, so you will
not overrule me to a peace.

To thine own peace. Laertes,
was your father dear to you?

Why ask you this? What would
you undertake to show yourself

your father's son in deed
more than in words?

To cut his throat in the church!

Revenge should have no bounds.

But, good Laertes, will you do this?
Keep close within your chamber.

Hamlet returned shall know
you are come home.

We'll put on those shall praise
your excellence in fencing,

bring you in sport together
and wager on your heads.

He, being remiss,
will not peruse the foils,

so you may choose a sword unblunted

and, in a pass of practice,
requite him for your father.

I will do it and, for that purpose,
I'll anoint my sword.

There is a poison that I bought
in France so mortal that,

but dip a knife in it,
where it draws blood

no antidote exists under the moon
can save the thing from death

that is but scratched withal.
Yes, but if this should fail,

and that our plan is seen
through our performance

'twere better not assayed,

therefore this project
should have a back or second,

that might hold if this
should blast in proof.

Soft, let me see.

When in your motion you are hot
and dry, as make your bouts

more violent to that end
and that he calls for drink,

I'll have prepared him a chalice
for his use whereon but sipping,

if he by chance escape your
venomed sword, our purpose...

How now, sweet queen?

One woe doth tread
upon another's heel...

..so fast they follow.

Your sister's drowned...





There is a willow grows
aslant the brook...

..that shows his hoar leaves in the
glassy stream.


with fantastic garlands
did she come

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 pendant boughs her
coronet weeds clambering to hang,

an envious sliver...


And 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 tunes,

as one insensible
of her own distress,

or like some creature native
and indued unto that element.

But long it could not be
before her garments,

heavy with their drink...

..pulled the poor wretch
from her melodious lay...

..to muddy death.

Alas, then she is drowned?



Too much of water hast thou,
poor Ophelia,

and therefore I forbid my tears.


But yet it is our trick.

CRYING: When these are done,

I have a speech of fire,

that fain would blaze.

Let's follow, Gertrude.

How much I had to do to
calm his rage,

I now fear I this will give it start
again, therefore let's follow.

MUSIC: Sugar Baby
by Bob Dylan

Has this fellow no feeling
of his business

that he sings at grave-making?

Custom hath made it in him
a property of easiness.

'Tis even so.

That skull had a tongue once

and could sing.

How the knave jowls
it to the ground.

It might be the pate

of a politician, might it not?

It might, my lord. Or of a servant
who could say

"Good morrow, sweet lord!

"How dost thou, sweet lord?"
Aye, my lord.

And now here's fine revolution
if we had the trick to see it.

There's another.

Why may not that be
the skull of a lawyer?

Why does he suffer this mad knave
to knock him about the sconce

and will not tell him of
his action of battery?

Whose grave's this, sir?

Mine, sir.

Me thinks 'tis thine indeed,
for thou liest in it.

You lie out on it, sir,
therefore it is not yours.

For my part,

I do not lie in it,

yet it is mine.

Thou dost lie in it,
to be in it and say it is thine.

'Tis for the dead, not for the
quick, therefore thou liest.

'Tis a quick lie, sir,
'twill away again from me to you.

What man do you dig it for?
For no man, sir.

What woman, then? For none, neither.
Who's to be buried in it?

One that was a woman, sir,
but, rest her soul, she's dead.

How absolute this knave is!

How long hast thou been
a grave-maker?

Of all the days in the year,

I came to it that very day
that our last king, Hamlet...

..overcame Fortinbras.

How long is that since?

Cannot you tell that?

Every fool can tell that.

It was the very day that
young Hamlet was born.

He that is mad...

..and sent into England.

Aye, marry...

Why was he sent into England?
Why, because he was mad.

He shall recover his wits
there or, if he do not,

'tis no great matter there.

Why? 'Twill not be seen
in him there.

There the men are as mad as he.

How came he mad?

Very strangely, they say.
How strangely?

Faith, even with losing his wits.
Upon what ground?

Why, here in Denmark.

I have been sexton here,

man and boy.

Thirty years.

How long will a man lie
in the earth before he rot?

In faith...

..well, he be not rotten
before he die,

as we have many pocky corpses
now-a-days that will scarce

hold the laying in, he will last
you some eight year or nine year.

A tanner will last you nine year.

He will hold out water
a great while,

and your water is a sore decayer
of your whoreson dead body.

Here's a skull now

that lain in the earth
three-and-twenty years.

Whose was it?

A whoreson mad fellow's it was.

Whose do you think it was?

Nay, I know not.

A pestilence on him for a mad rogue!

He poured a flagon of Rhenish
on my head once.

This same skull, sir,

was Yorick's skull,

the King's jester. This?

Even that. Let me see.

Alas, poor Yorick!

I knew him...


A fellow of infinite jest...


..of most excellent fancy.

He hath borne me on his back

a thousand times.

And now, how abhorred

in my imagination it is!

My gorge rises at it.

Here hung those lips that
I have kissed I know not how oft.

Where be your gibes now?

Your songs?

Your gambols?

Your flashes of merriment that were
wont to set the table on a roar?

Not one now,

to mock your own grinning?

Get thee to my lady's chamber,

and tell her to her paint
an inch thick,

to this favour she must come.

Horatio, tell me one thing.

What's that, my lord?

Dost thou think
Alexander the Great

looked in this fashion
in the earth?

Even so, my lord.
And smelt so too. Even so.

To what base uses
we may return, Horatio.

Imperious Caesar...

..dead and turned to clay...

..might stop a hole
to keep the wind away.

Oh, that, that earth which
kept the world in awe...

..should patch a wall
to expel the winter's flaw.

Soft! Soft! Awhile!

The King, The Queen

Hold. What ceremony else?

What ceremony else?

Her obsequies have been as far

as we have warranties:
her death was doubtful;

and, but that great command
o'ersways the order,

she should in ground unsanctified
have lodg'd

shards, flints, and pebbles
should be thrown on her,

yet here she is.

Must there no more be done?

No more be done.

We should profane the service
of the dead to sing a requiem.

Lay her i' th' earth;

and from her fair

and unpolluted flesh

may violets spring!

I tell thee, churlish priest...

a minist'ring angel
shall my sister be

when thou liest howling.

Sweets to the sweet!


I hop'd thou shouldst have
been my Hamlet's wife;

I thought thy bride-bed to have
deck'd, sweet maid...

..and not have strew'd thy grave.

O, treble woe

fall ten times treble
on that cursed head

whose wicked deed thy most
ingenious sense

depriv'd thee of!

Hold off the earth awhile,

till I have caught her once
more in mine arms.


Now pile your dust
upon the quick and dead,

till of this flat
a mountain you have made,

to o'ertop old Pelion,
or the skyish head

Of blue Olympus.

What is he whose grief

bears such an emphasis?

Whose phrase of sorrow
conjures the wand'ring stars.

It is I, Hamlet the Dane.

The devil take thy soul!

I prithee take thy fingers
from my throat;

for, though I am not
splenitive and rash,

yet have I in me
something dangerous,

which let thy wisdom fear.

Hold off thy hand!


Why, I will fight with him
upon this theme

until my eyelids will no longer wag.

O my son, what theme?
I lov'd Ophelia.

Forty thousand brothers

could not, with all their quantity
of love, make up my sum.

What wilt thou do?

O, he is mad, Laertes.

For love of God, forbear him!

Show me what would thou do.
Woo't weep? Woo't fight? Woo't fast?

Woo't tear thyself? Drink up poison?
Eat a crocodile? I'll do't.

Dost thou come here to whine?

To outface me
by jumping in her grave?

Be buried live with her,
and so will I.

And if thou speak of mountains,
let them pour

millions of acres on us,
till our ground

singes his head against
the burning sun

This is mere madness;

and thus awhile the fit
will work in him.

Hear me, sir!

What is the reason you use me thus?

I lov'd you...ever.

But it is no matter.

Horatio, strengthen your patience
in our last night's speech.

We'll put the matter to the present

Good Gertrude, set some watch
over your son.

This grave shall have
a living monument.

An hour of quiet shortly
shall we see;

till then, in patience
our proceeding be.

So much for this, sir...

..now you will hear the other.

You do remember all
the circumstance?

Remember it, my lord?

Sir, in my heart there was a kind
of fighting,

which would not let me sleep.

Let us know,

Our intuition sometime
serves us well

when our deep plots do pall;
and that should teach us

there's a divinity that shapes our

Rough-hew them how we will...

That is most certain.

Up from my cabin,

my sea-gown scarf'd about me,
in the dark

grop'd I to find

Their grand commission; where I
found, Horatio, an exact command,

that, on the supervise,
no leisure bated,

my head should be struck off.
Is't possible?

Wilt thou hear how I did proceed?
I beseech you.

They had begun the play.

I sat me down,

devis'd a new commission;
wrote it fair.

An earnest conjuration
from the King,

that, on the view and
knowing of these contents,

they should the bearers
put to sudden death,

Folded the writ up in the form of
th' other, plac'd it safely,

the changeling never known.


Guildenstern and Rosencrantz
go to't.

They are not near my conscience;

their defeat does by their own
insinuation grow.

But I am very sorry
that to Laertes...

..I forgot myself,

for, by the image of my cause, I see
the portraiture of his.

Your Lordship is right welcome
back to Denmark.

I humbly thank you, sir.

I come with an embassage from
His Majesty to you

I shall, sir, give you attention.

His Majesty bade me

signify to you that he has laid
a great wager on your head.

Sir, this is the matter -

here is newly come to court
Laertes; believe me,

an absolute gentleman, of very soft
society and great showing.

What imports the nomination
of this gentleman?

Of Laertes?
Of him, sir.

I know you are not ignorant of what
excellence Laertes is at his weapon.

What's his weapon?
Rapier and dagger.

That's two of his weapons:
but, well.

The King, sir, hath laid a wager
that, in a five rounds of fencing

between yourself and Laertes,
he shall not exceed you;

it would come to immediate trial

if Your Lordship would vouchsafe
an answer.

How if I answer no?

I mean, my lord, the opposition
of your person in trial.

Sir, I walk here in the halls.

If it please His Majesty, it is
the breathing time of day with me.

Let the foils be brought,
the gentleman willing,

and the King hold his purpose,
I will win for him if I can;

if not, I will gain nothing
but my shame and the odd hits.

My lord, His Majesty sends to know

if your pleasure hold to play with

or if you will take longer time.

I am constant to my purpose;
they follow the King's pleasure.

If his fitness speaks,
mine is ready; now or whensoever.

The King and Queen
and all are coming down.

In happy time.

The Queen desires you to use some
gentle entertainment to Laertes

before you fall to play.

She well instructs me.

You will lose, my lord.

I do not think so.

Since he went to France I have
been in continual practice.


But thou wouldst not think how ill
all's here about my heart.

But it is no matter.
Nay, my lord...

It is but foolery.

If your mind dislike anything,
obey it.

I will forestall their repair hither
and say you are not fit.

Not a whit, we defy augury...

..there's special providence
in the fall of a sparrow.

If it be now...

..'tis not to come;

if it be not to come,

it will be now;

if it be not now...

..yet it will come:

the readiness is all.

And since no man knows aught of what
he leaves,

what is't to leave betimes?

Let be.

MUSIC: Not Dark Yet
by Bob Dylan

Come, Hamlet, come,
and take this hand from me.

Give me your pardon, sir.

I have done you wrong.

But pardon't,
as you are a gentleman.

This presence knows,

And you must needs have heard,
how I am punish'd

with sore distraction.

What I have done...

..that might your honour, nature
and exception roughly awake,

I here proclaim was madness.

Was't Hamlet wrong'd Laertes?
Never Hamlet.

If Hamlet from himself be taken

and when he's not himself
does wrong Laertes,

Hamlet does it not,
Hamlet denies it.

Who does it, then?

His madness.

If't be so, Hamlet
is of the faction that is wrong'd.

Sir, in this audience,

let my disclaiming from
a purpos'd evil

free me so far in your most
generous thoughts

that I have shot my arrow
o'er the house

and hurt my brother.

I am satisfied in nature...

..whose motive in this case should
stir me most to my revenge.

But in my terms of honour,

I do receive your offer'd love
like love,

and will not wrong it.

I embrace it freely,

and will this brother's wager
frankly play.

Come, the foils.
Come, one for me.

I'll be your foil, Laertes.

And in mine ignorance

your skill shall, like a star i' th'
darkest night,

stick fiery off indeed.

You mock me, sir.

No, by this hand.

Give them the foils, Reynaldo.
Cousin Hamlet, you know the wager?

Very well, Your Grace.

Your Lordship has laid the odds
on th' weaker side.

I do not fear it,
I have seen you both.

This is too heavy.

Let me see another.

This likes me well.
These foils have all a length?

Ay, my good lord.

Set me the cup of wine
upon the table.

If Hamlet give the first
or second hit,

or quit in answer of the third

let all the battlements their
ordnance fire;

the King shall drink to
Hamlet's better breath,

and in the cup an union
shall he throw

richer than that which four
successive kings

in Denmark's crown have worn.

Give me the cup.

'Now the King drinks to Hamlet.'

Come, begin. And you the judges,
bear a wary eye.


Come, sir.
Come, my lord.

# Shadows are falling
and I've been here all day...#


# It's too hot to sleep
and time is running away...#


# Feel like my soul has
turned into steel

# I've still got the scars
that the sun didn't heal

# There's not even room enough
to be anywhere

# It's not dark yet
but it's getting there... #


# My sense of humanity
has down the drain... #


# Behind every beautiful thing
there's been some kind of pain

# She wrote me a letter
and she wrote it so kind

# She put down in writin'
what was in her mind

# I just don't see why
I should even care

# It's not dark yet
but it's getting there

# Well, I've been to London
And I've been to gay Paris. #


They bleed on both sides.
Enough. How is it, my lord?

How is't, Laertes?

Look to the Queen?

She swoons to see them bleed.

No, no! The drink, the drink!
O my dear Hamlet!

The drink, the drink!
I am poison'd.

Villany! Lock the doors!

Villany! Villany!

It is here, Hamlet.
Hamlet, thou art slain;

no medicine in the world
can do thee good.

In thee there is not half
an hour of life.

The treacherous instrument
is in thy hand,

unblunted and envenom'd.

The foul practice
hath turn'd itself on me.

Thy mother's poison'd.

I can no more.
The King, the King's to blame.

The point envenom'd too?

Then, venom...

..to thy work.

Here, thou incestuous, murd'rous,
damned Dane.

Follow my mother.

Exchange forgiveness with me,
noble Hamlet.

Mine and my father's death come not
upon thee.

Nor thine on me!

Heaven make thee free of it!


Wretched queen...


I am dead, Horatio.

You that look pale
and tremble at this chance...

..that are but mute and
audience to this act,

had I but time...

..as this fell sergeant, Death,

is strict in his arrest...

..O, I could tell you...

But let it be.

Horatio, I am dead.

Thou liv'st; report me
and my cause aright

to the unsatisfied.

Never believe it.

There's yet some liquor left.

As thou art a man...

..let go!

If thou didst ever hold me
in thy heart,

absent thee from felicity awhile,

and in this harsh world
draw thy breath in pain,

to tell my story.

I cannot live to hear the news
from England,

but I do prophesy the election
lights on Fortinbras.

He has my dying voice.

So tell him,

with the occurrents,

more and less,

which have solicited.

The rest is silence.

Good night sweet prince.

And flights of angels
sing thee to thy rest!

Give order that these bodies

High on a stage be placed to the

and let me speak to the yet
unknowing world

how these things came about.

Let us haste to hear it,

And call the noblest
to the audience.

For me,
with sorrow I embrace my fortune.

I have some rights of memory in this

which now, to claim my vantage
doth invite me.

Let four captains bear Hamlet
like a soldier to the stage;

For he was likely,
had he been put on,

to have prov'd most royal;
and for his passage

the soldiers' music and the
rites of war

speak loudly for him.

Such a sight as this becomes
the field,

but here shows much amiss.

MUSIC: One More Cup Of Coffee
by Bob Dylan

# One more cup of coffee
for the road

# One more cup of coffee
'fore I go

# To the valley below

# Your daddy, he's an outlaw
And a wanderer by trade

# He'll teach you how
to pick and choose

# And how to throw the blade

# He oversees his kingdom
So no stranger does intrude

# His voice, it trembles
as he calls out

# For another plate of food...#