My uncle!

HAMLET.

O my prophetic soul!

GHOST.

Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,
With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,—
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, soft! methinks I scent the morning air;
Brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard,
My custom always of the afternoon,
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole,
With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial,
And in the porches of my ears did pour
The leperous distilment; whose effect
Holds such an enmity with blood of man
That swift as quicksilver it courses through
The natural gates and alleys of the body;
So did it mine.

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,
No reckoning made, but sent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head.

HAMLET.

O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible!

GHOST.

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 thou pursuest this act,

Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive
Against thy mother aught: leave her to heaven,
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once!
The glow-worm shows the matin to be near,
And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire:
Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me.

HAMLET.

O all you host of heaven!

(Exit.)

host of heaven! O earth! what else? And shall I couple hell? O, fie! Hold, hold, my

heart;

And you, my sinews, grow not instant old,
But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee!
Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe. Remember thee!
Yea, from the table of my memory

I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,
That youth and observation copied there;
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmix'd with baser matter: yes, by heaven!
O most pernicious woman!

O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!
My tables,―meet it is I set it down,

That one may smile, and smile, and be a vil

lain;

At least I'm sure it may be so in Denmark.

(Writing.)

So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word;
It is "Adieu, adieu! remember me."

I have sworn't.

HORATIO and MARCELLUS. (Within.)

My lord, my lord!

Hillo, ho, ho, boy! come, bird, come.

MARCELLUS.

How is't, my noble lord?

HORATIO.

What news, my lord?

HAMLET.

O, wonderful!

HORATIO.

Good my lord, tell it.

HAMLET.

No; you will reveal it.

HORATIO.

Not I, my lord, by heaven.

MARCELLUS.

Nor I, my lord.

HAMLET.

How say you, then; would heart of man once

think it?

But you'll be secret?

HORATIO and MARCELLUS.

Ay, by heaven, my lord.

HAMLET.

There's ne'er a villain dwelling in all Denmark But he's an arrant knave.

HORATIO.

There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the

grave

To tell us this.

HAMLET.

Why, right; you are i' the right;

And so, without more circumstance at all,

I hold it fit that we shake hands and part:
You, as your business and desire shall point you;
For every man hath business and desire,

Such as it is; and for my own poor part,

Look

you, I'll

go pray.

These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.

HORATIO.

HAMLET.

I'm sorry they offend you, heartily;

Yes, faith, heartily.

HORATIO.

There's no offence, my lord. HAMLET.

Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio,
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,
O'ermaster 't as you may. And now, good friends,
As you are friends, scholars and soldiers,

Give me one poor request.

HORATIO.

What is't, my lord? we will.

HAMLET.

Never make known what you have seen to-night.

HORATIO and MARCELLUS.

Ah, ha, boy! say'st thou so? art thou there, true

penny?

Come on you hear this fellow in the cellarage: Consent to swear.