cancercell
Glock beam turn a white man to an Indian 👁️
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More relative than this. The play’s the thingWherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King. And can you by no drift of conferenceGet from him why he puts on this confusion,Grating so harshly all his days of quietWith turbulent and dangerous lunacy?He does confess he feels himself distracted,But from what cause he will by no means speak.Nor do we find him forward to be sounded,But with a crafty madness keeps aloofWhen we would bring him on to some confessionOf his true state.Did he receive you well?Most like a gentleman.But with much forcing of his disposition.Niggard of question, but of our demandsMost free in his reply.Did you assay him to any pastime?Madam, it so fell out that certain playersEnter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz,Guildenstern, and Lords.We o’erraught on the way. Of these we told him,And there did seem in him a kind of joyTo hear of it. They are here about the court,And, as I think, they have already orderThis night to play before him.’Tis most true,And he beseeched me to entreat your MajestiesTo hear and see the matter.With all my heart, and it doth much content meTo hear him so inclined.Good gentlemen, give him a further edgeAnd drive his purpose into these delights.We shall, my lord.Sweet Gertrude, leave us too,For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither,That he, as ’twere by accident, may hereAffront Ophelia.Her father and myself, lawful espials,Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing unseen,We may of their encounter frankly judgeAnd gather by him, as he is behaved,If ’t be th’ affliction of his love or noThat thus he suffers for.I shall obey you.And for your part, Ophelia, I do wishThat your good beauties be the happy causeOf Hamlet’s wildness. So shall I hope your virtuesWill bring him to his wonted way again,To both your honors.Madam, I wish it may.Ophelia, walk you here.—Gracious, so please you,They withdraw.We will bestow ourselves. To Ophelia. Read on thisbook,That show of such an exercise may colorYour loneliness. —We are oft to blame in this(’Tis too much proved), that with devotion’s visageAnd pious action we do sugar o’erThe devil himself., aside O, ’tis too true!How smart a lash that speech doth give myconscience.The harlot’s cheek beautied with plast’ring artIs not more ugly to the thing that helps itThan is my deed to my most painted word.O heavy burden!I hear him coming. Let’s withdraw, my lord.Enter Hamlet.To be or not to be—that is the question:Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,Or to take arms against a sea of troublesAnd, by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep—No more—and by a sleep to say we endThe heartache and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to—’tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep—To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub,For in that. sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause. There’s the respectThat makes calamity of so long life.For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,The insolence of office, and the spurnsThat patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,To grunt and sweat under a weary life,But that the dread of something after death,The undiscovered country from whose bournNo traveler returns, puzzles the willAnd makes us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,And thus arvid the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,And enterprises of great pitch and momentWith this regard their currents turn awryAnd lose the name of action.—Soft you now,The fair Ophelia.—Nymph, in thy orisonsBe all my sins remembered.Good my lord,How does your Honor for this many a day?I humbly thank you, well.My lord, I have remembrances of yoursThat I have longèd long to redeliver.I pray you now receive them.No, not I. I never gave you aught.My honored lord, you know right well you did,And with them words of so sweet breath composedAs made the things more rich. Their perfumelost,Take these again, for to the noble mindRich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.There, my lord.Ha, ha, are you honest?My lord?Are you fair? What means your Lordship?That if you be honest and fair, your honestyshould admit no discourse to your beauty.Could beauty, my lord, have better commercethan with honesty?Ay, truly, for the power of beauty will soonertransform honesty from what it is to a bawd thanthe force of honesty can translate beauty into hislikeness. This was sometime a paradox, but nowthe time gives it proof. I did love you once.Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.You should not have believed me, for virtuecannot so inoculate our old stock but we shallrelish of it. I loved you not.I was the more deceived.Get thee to a nunnery. Why wouldst thou bea breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest,but yet I could accuse me of such things that itwere better my mother had not borne me: I amvery proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offensesat my beck than I have thoughts to put themin, imagination to give them shape, or time to actthem in. What should such fellows as I do crawlingbetween earth and heaven? We are arrant knavesall; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery.Where’s your father?At home, my lord.Let the doors be shut upon him that he mayplay the fool nowhere but in ’s own house. Farewell.O, help him, you sweet heavens!If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plaguefor thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure assnow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, farewell. Or if thou wilt needs marry,marry a fool, for wise men know well enough whatmonsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go, andquickly too. Farewell.Heavenly powers, restore him!I have heard of your paintings too, wellenough. God hath given you one face, and youmake yourselves another. You jig and amble, andyou lisp; you nickname God’s creatures and makeyour wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll nomore on ’t. It hath made me mad. I say we will haveno more marriage. Those that are married already,all but one, shall live. The rest shall keep as they are.To a nunnery, go.O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue,sword,Th’ expectancy and rose of the fair state,The glass of fashion and the mold of form,Th’ observed of all observers, quite, quite down!And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,That sucked the honey of his musicked vows,Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,Like sweet bells jangled, out of time and harsh;That unmatched form and stature of blown youthBlasted with ecstasy. O, woe is meT’ have seen what I have seen, see what I see!, advancing with PoloniusLove? His affections do not that way tend;Nor what he spake, though it lacked form a little,Was not like madness. There’s something in his soulO’er which his melancholy sits on brood,And I do doubt the hatch and the discloseWill be some danger; which for to prevent,I have in quick determination
