Hamlet Act 3 Scene 3
A room in the castle.
The Original
Plain Modern English
Enter King Claudius, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.
Claudius
I like him not, nor stands it safe with us
To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you;
I your commission will forthwith dispatch,
And he to England shall along with you:
The terms of our estate may not endure
Hazard so near's as doth hourly grow
Out of his brows.
Claudius
I don't trust him, and it isn't safe for me
to let his madness roam free. So get ready:
I'll have your official orders drawn up at once,
and he'll go to England with you.
My position as king can't tolerate
a danger this close, growing by the hour
out of his moods.
Guildenstern
We will ourselves provide.
Most holy and religious fear it is
To keep those many many bodies safe
That live and feed upon your majesty.
Guildenstern
We'll get ourselves ready.
It's a most holy and religious concern
to keep safe the many, many people
who live and depend on Your Majesty.
Rosencrantz
The single and peculiar life is bound,
With all the strength and armor of the mind,
To keep itself from noyance; but much more
That spirit upon whose weal depend and rest
The lives of many. The cess of majesty
Dies not alone; but, like a gulf, doth draw
What's near it with it: it is a massy wheel,
Fix'd on the summit of the highest mount,
To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things
Are mortised and adjoin'd; which, when it falls,
Each small annexment, petty consequence,
Attends the boisterous ruin. Never alone
Did the king sigh, but with a general groan.
Rosencrantz
An ordinary private individual is obliged,
with all the strength and armour of his mind,
to protect himself from harm — but far more so
the man on whose wellbeing depend
the lives of many others. The death of a king
doesn't happen alone — like a whirlpool it drags
everything nearby down with it. It's a huge wheel
set on the summit of the highest mountain,
and to its enormous spokes ten thousand smaller things
are fixed and joined. When it falls,
every little attachment, every minor part,
goes down in the violent wreck. A king never sighed
without the whole country groaning with him. (Both of them are flattering the man who murdered the last king. Neither has any idea.)
Claudius
Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage;
For we will fetters put upon this fear,
Which now goes too free-footed.
Claudius
Prepare yourselves for this quick voyage, please.
We'll put chains on this danger,
which is walking about far too freely.
Rosencrantz
We will haste us.
Rosencrantz
We'll hurry.
Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Enter Polonius.
Polonius
My lord, he's going to his mother's closet:
Behind the arras I'll convey myself,
To hear the process; and warrant she'll tax him home:
And, as you said, and wisely was it said,
'Tis meet that some more audience than a mother,
Since nature makes them partial, should o'erhear
The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege:
I'll call upon you ere you go to bed,
And tell you what I know.
Polonius
My lord, he's on his way to his mother's private room.
I'll hide myself behind the tapestry
to hear how it goes. I guarantee she'll press him hard.
And as you said — and it was wisely said —
it's proper that someone besides a mother,
since nature makes mothers biased, should overhear
the conversation from a good vantage point. Farewell, my king.
I'll come to you before you go to bed
and tell you what I've learned. (He will not. He has about ten minutes to live.)
Claudius
Thanks, dear my lord.
Claudius
Thank you, my dear lord.
Exit Polonius.
Claudius
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven;
It hath the primal eldest curse upon't,
A brother's murder. Pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will.
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood,
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy
But to confront the visage of offence?
And what's in prayer but this two-fold force,
To be forestalled ere we come to fall,
Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up;
My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? 'Forgive me my foul murder'?
That cannot be; since I am still possess'd
Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition and my queen.
May one be pardon'd and retain th' offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice,
And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law: but 'tis not so above;
There is no shuffling, there the action lies
In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'd,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? what rests?
Try what repentance can: what can it not?
Yet what can it when one can not repent?
O wretched state! O bosom black as death!
O limed soul, that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe!
All may be well.
Claudius
My crime is rotten — the stench reaches heaven.
It carries the oldest curse of all:
the murder of a brother. I can't pray,
even though I want to as much as I intend to.
My guilt is stronger than my intention and defeats it.
And like a man committed to two things at once,
I stand paralysed over which to start with
and end up doing neither. What if this cursed hand
were caked in my brother's blood thicker than itself —
isn't there enough rain in the sweet heavens
to wash it white as snow? What is mercy for,
if not to face down the sight of sin?
And what's the power of prayer but this double one:
to stop us before we fall,
or pardon us once we have? So I'll look up.
My sin is in the past. But — what form of prayer
could possibly work for me? 'Forgive me my foul murder'?
That can't work, since I still possess
the very things I committed the murder for:
my crown, my satisfied ambition, and my queen.
Can a man be forgiven and keep what the crime won him?
In the corrupt dealings of this world
a criminal's gold-filled hand can shove justice aside,
and often the wicked prize itself
buys off the law. But it isn't like that up above.
There's no dodging there. There the deed is seen
for exactly what it is, and we're forced,
face to face with our own sins,
to testify against ourselves. So what then? What's left?
Try what repentance can do. What can't it do?
And yet what can it do when a man can't repent?
What a wretched condition. What a heart, black as death.
My soul is stuck like a bird in glue — the more it struggles
the more it's caught. Help, angels! Try!
Bend, stubborn knees. And heart, strung with steel,
be soft as a newborn baby's.
It may all still be all right.
He kneels. Enter Hamlet.
Hamlet
Now might I do it pat, now he is praying;
And now I'll do't. And so he goes to heaven;
And so am I revenged. That would be scann'd:
A villain kills my father; and for that,
I, his sole son, do this same villain send
To heaven.
O, this is hire and salary, not revenge.
He took my father grossly, full of bread;
With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May;
And how his audit stands who knows save heaven?
But in our circumstance and course of thought,
'Tis heavy with him: and am I then revenged,
To take him in the purging of his soul,
When he is fit and season'd for his passage?
No!
Up, sword; and know thou a more horrid hent:
When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage,
Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed;
At gaming, swearing, or about some act
That has no relish of salvation in't;
Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven,
And that his soul may be as damn'd and black
As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays:
This physic but prolongs thy sickly days.
Hamlet
I could do it perfectly now, while he's praying.
I'll do it now. — And so he goes to heaven,
and so I've had my revenge. That needs thinking through.
A villain kills my father — and in return
I, his only son, send that same villain
to heaven.
That's paying him a wage, not taking revenge.
He caught my father unprepared, stuffed with life,
with all his sins in full bloom, ripe as May.
How his account stands, only heaven knows —
but as far as we down here can judge,
it looks bad for him. So am I really revenged
if I kill this man while his soul is being cleansed,
when he's ready and prepared for the journey?
No!
Back in the sheath, sword — wait for a more horrible moment.
When he's passed out drunk, or in a rage,
or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed;
gambling, swearing, or doing something
with no trace of salvation in it —
then knock him down, so his heels kick up at heaven
and his soul goes down as damned and black
as the hell it's headed for. — My mother's waiting.
This praying of yours only draws out your sick life a little longer. (Claudius has just said, out loud, that he cannot pray. Hamlet has spared him for praying. Neither of them knows.)
Exit Hamlet.
Claudius
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
Claudius
My words fly upward; my thoughts stay down here.
Words without real feeling never reach heaven.
Exit. — End of Scene 3.