Internet Shakespeare Editions

Author: William Shakespeare
Not Peer Reviewed

Hamlet (Quarto 2, 1604)

Eenter King,and Queene, with Rosencraus
2586.1and Guyldensterne.
King. There's matter in these sighes, these profound heaues,
You must translate, tis fit we vnderstand them,
2590Where is your sonne?
2590.1Ger. Bestow this place on vs a little while.
Ah mine owne Lord, what haue I seene to night?
King. What Gertrard, how dooes Hamlet?
Ger. Mad as the sea and wind when both contend
Which is the mightier, in his lawlesse fit,
2595Behind the Arras hearing some thing stirre,
Whyps out his Rapier, cryes a Rat, a Rat,
And in this brainish apprehension kills
The vnseene good old man.
King. O heauy deede!
2600It had beene so with vs had wee been there,
His libertie is full of threates to all,
To you your selfe, to vs, to euery one,
Alas, how shall this bloody deede be answer'd?
It will be layd to vs, whose prouidence
2605Should haue kept short, restraind, and out of haunt
This mad young man; but so much was our loue,
We would not vnderstand what was most fit,
But like the owner of a foule disease
To keepe it from divulging, let it feede
2610Euen on the pith of life: where is he gone?
Ger. To draw apart the body he hath kild,
Ore whom, his very madnes like some ore
Among a minerall of mettals base,
Showes it selfe pure, a weepes for what is done.
2615King. O Gertrard, come away,
The sunne no sooner shall the mountaines touch,
But we will ship him hence, and this vile deede
We must with all our Maiestie and skill
Enter Ros. & Guild.
Both countenaunce and excuse. Ho Guyldensterne,
Friends both, goe ioyne you with some further ayde,
Hamlet in madnes hath Polonius slaine,
And from his mothers closet hath he dreg'd him,
Goe seeke him out, speake fayre, and bring the body
2625Into the Chappell; I pray you hast in this,
Come Gertrard, wee'le call vp our wisest friends,
And let them know both what we meane to doe
And whats vntimely doone,
2628.1Whose whisper ore the worlds dyameter,
As leuell as the Cannon to his blanck,
Transports his poysned shot, may misse our Name,
And hit the woundlesse ayre, ô come away,
My soule is full of discord and dismay.