Ghost. Now, Hamlet, hear.
'Tis
given out that, sleeping in my orchard,
35
A serpent
stung me-so the whole ear of Denmark
Is by
a forged process of my death
Rankly
abus'd-but know, thou noble youth,
The serpent
that did sting thy father's life
Now wears
his crown.
40
Ham. O my prophetic
soul! My uncle!
Ghost. Ay, that incestuous,
that adulterate beast,
With
witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts-
O wicked
wit, and gifts that have the power
So to
seduce!-won to his shameful lust
45
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
50
Upon
a wretch whose natural gifts were poor
To those
of mine.
But virtue,
as it never will be mov'd,
Though
lewdness court it in a shape of heaven,
So lust,
though to a radiant angel link'd,
55
Will
sate itself in a celestial bed
And prey
on garbage.
But soft,
methinks I scent the morning air:
Brief
let me be. Sleeping within my orchard,
My custom
always of the afternoon,
60
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
65
That
swift as quicksilver it courses through
The natural
gates and alleys of the body,
And with
a sudden vigour it doth posset
And curd,
like eager droppings into milk,
The thin
and wholesome blood. So did it mine,
70
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 dispatched,
75
Cut off
even in the blossoms of my sin,
Unhousel'd,
disappointed, unanel'd,
No reckoning
made, but sent to my account
With
all my imperfections on my head.
O horrible!
O horrible! most horrible!
80
If thou
has nature in thee, bear it not,
Let not
the royal bed of Denmark be
A couch
for luxury and damned incest.
But howsomever
thou pursuest this act,
Taint
not thy mind nor let thy soul contrive
85
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
show, the matin to be near
And gins
to pale his uneffectual fire.
90
Adieu,
adieu, adieu. Remember me.
Exit.