LORD POLONIUS |
My lord, he's going to his mother's closet: |
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Behind the arras I'll convey myself, |
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To hear the process; and warrant she'll tax him home: |
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And, as you said, and wisely was it said, |
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Tis meet that some more audience than a mother, |
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Since nature makes them partial, should o'erhear |
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The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege: |
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I'll call upon you ere you go to bed, |
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And tell you what I know. |
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KING CLAUDIUS |
Thanks, dear my lord. |
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[Exit POLONIUS] |
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O, my offence is rank it smells to heaven; |
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It hath the primal eldest curse upon't, |
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A brother's murder. Pray can I not, |
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Though inclination be as sharp as will: |
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My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; |
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And, like a man to double business bound, |
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I stand in pause where I shall first begin, |
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And both neglect. What if this cursed hand |
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Were thicker than itself with brother's blood, |
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Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens |
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To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy |
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But to confront the visage of offence? |
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And what's in prayer but this two–fold force, |
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To be forestalled ere we come to fall, |
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Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up; |
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My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer |
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Can serve my turn? 'Forgive me my foul murder'? |
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That cannot be; since I am still possess'd |
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Of those effects for which I did the murder, |
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My crown, mine own ambition and my queen. |
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May one be pardon'd and retain the offence? |
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In the corrupted currents of this world |
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Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice, |
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And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself |
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Buys out the law: but 'tis not so above; |
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There is no shuffling, there the action lies |
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In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'd, |
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Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, |
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To give in evidence. What then? what rests? |
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Try what repentance can: what can it not? |
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Yet what can it when one can not repent? |
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O wretched state! O bosom black as death! |
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O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, |
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Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! |
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Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart with strings of steel, |
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Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe! |
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All may be well. |
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[Retires and kneels] |
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[Enter HAMLET] |
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HAMLET |
Now might I do it pat, now he is praying; |
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And now I'll do't. And so he goes to heaven; |
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And so am I revenged. That would be scann'd: |
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A villain kills my father; and for that, |
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I, his sole son, do this same villain send |
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To heaven. |
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O, this is hire and salary, not revenge. |
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He took my father grossly, full of bread; |
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With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; |
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And how his audit stands who knows save heaven? |
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But in our circumstance and course of thought, |
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Tis heavy with him: and am I then revenged, |
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To take him in the purging of his soul, |
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When he is fit and season'd for his passage? |
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No! |
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Up, sword; and know thou a more horrid hent: |
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When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage, |
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Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed; |
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At gaming, swearing, or about some act |
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That has no relish of salvation in't; |
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Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven, |
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And that his soul may be as damn'd and black |
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As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays: |
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This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. |
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[Exit] |
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KING CLAUDIUS |
[Rising]�My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: |
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Words without thoughts never to heaven go. |
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[Exit] |
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