And, with a sudden vigour, it doth posset Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust, Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand, Of life, of crown, of queen, at once despatched: No reckoning made, but sent to my account But howsoever thou pursuest this act, Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me. [Exit. Ham. O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else? And shall I couple hell?-O fy!— 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, O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! I have sworn 't. [Writing. The better to concea his purposes of vengeance, Hamlet feigns madness. Portions of his conduct seem to indicate that he was to some extent also really mad, or at least under that sort of partial derangement which we often see in real life, when intense excitement for some great injury causes a temporary dethronement of reason. The feeling of indignation at the shameless. conduct of his mother and uncle seems to have taken complete possession of his soul, to the exclusion of every other consideration. No more striking evidence could be given of his perfect abandonment to this one idea, than his conduct to Ophelia. He had loved her with an affection peculiarly delicate and tender. His whole conduct towards her now becomes changed. At first he behaves towards her only in a wild and incoherent manner, but subsequently he treats her with a cold and cruel mockery which drives her to madness, and withal, from first to last, he does not seek or seem to desire to give her the least explanation of his conduct. All this is incompatible with his having for the time any regard for her. Love, the great ruling passion of the young, is placed in complete abeyance, and one overpowering, all-pervading sentiment has possession of his breast. His strong natural sense of wrong is lashed into a state of frenzy, by the appear ance and language of his father's ghost, and he presents the singular, but I think intelligible spectacle of a person feigning madness, and at the same time a real mono-maniac. Enter OPHELIA, and POLONIUS. Pol. How now, Ophelia? what's the matter? Oph. My lord, as I was sewing in my closet, Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbraced; No hat upon his head; his stockings fouled, As if he had been loosed out of hell, To speak of horrors, - he comes before me. Pol. Mad for thy love? Oph. But, truly, I do fear it. Pol. My lord, I do not know; What said he? Oph. 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 o'er his brow, He falls to such perusal of my face, As he would draw it. Long stayed he so; And thrice his head thus waving up and down,- As it did seem to shatter all his bulk, And end his being: That done, he lets me go; Hamlet's account of himself to Guildenstern and Rosencrantz, who had been sent by the king to act as spies upon him, and to penetrate if possible the true cause of his strange demeanour: Ham. 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 steril promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging 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 man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! 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? Hamlet's soliloquy after seeing a player act the part of Hecuba. Ham. O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous, that this player here, But in fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit, That, from her working, all his visage wanned; A broken voice, and his whole function suiting What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her? What would he do, That I have? He would drown the stage with tears, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat, Ha! Why, I should take it: for it cannot be, |