Hamlet 360: Thy Father’s Spirit – Shakespeare in VR


(dramatic orchestral music) (shouting) – Mine and my father’s
death come not upon thee, nor thine on me. – Heaven make thee free of it. I follow thee. Oh, I die, Horatio. The potent poison quite
o’ercrows my spirit. The rest … (breathing heavily) is silence. (eerie whirring) O, that this too too solid flesh … would melt, thaw … and resolve itself into a dew. Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon ‘gainst self-slaughter! O God! God! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, seem to me all the uses of this world. Fie on’t! Ah fie! That it should come to this! But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: So excellent a king; that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother that he might not beteem
the winds of heaven visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him, as if increase of appetite had grown by what it fed on: and
yet, within a month. Let me not think on’t. Frailty, thy name is woman! A little month, why she, even she, O, God, a beast, that wants discourse of reason, would have mourned longer, married with my uncle, my father’s brother, but
no more like my father than I to Hercules: within a month: ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears had left the flushing in her galled eyes, she married. O, most wicked speed, to post with such dexterity
to incestuous sheets! It is not nor it cannot come to good. But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue. (rattling) (jarring music) Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned, bring with thee airs from
heaven or blasts from hell, thou comest in such a questionable shape that I will speak to thee: I’ll call thee Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane: O, answer me! – [Ghost] Mark me! – Speak; I am bound to hear. – [Ghost] So art thou to
revenge, when thou shalt hear. – What? – [Ghost] I am thy father’s spirit, doomed for a certain
term to walk the night, and for the day confined to fast in fires, till the foul crimes
done in my days of nature are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid to tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word
would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres. But this eternal blazon must not be to ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list! If thou didst ever thy dear father love– – O, God! – [Ghost] Revenge his foul
and most unnatural murder. – Murder! – [Ghost] Murder most
foul, as in the best it is; but this most foul, strange and unnatural. ‘Tis given out that,
sleeping in my orchard, a serpent stung me. But know, thou noble youth, the serpent that did
sting thy father’s life now wears his crown. (cackling) – 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 the will of my most
seeming-virtuous queen. Brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard, upon my secure hour thy uncle stole, with juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, and in the porches of my ears did pour Tte leprous distilment. And with a sudden vigor it doth posset and curd, like eager droppings into milk, the thin and wholesome blood. And a most instant tetter barked 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. O, horrible! O, horrible! Most horrible! If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not; let not the royal bed of Denmark be a couch for luxury and damned incest. Fare thee well at once. The glow-worm shows the matin to be near. Adieu. Adieu! Adieu! Remember me! (gasping) – O all you host of heaven! O earth! O, fie! What else, and shall I couple hell? Hold. Hold, my heart. And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, but bear me stiffly up. Remember thee. Ay, thou poor ghost, whilst 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, and thy commandment all alone shall live within the book and volume of my brain, unmixed with baser matter: yes, by heaven! O villain! Villain, smiling, damned villain! (clattering) My tables. Meet it is I set it down, that one may smile, and
smile, and be a villain. At least I’m sure it may be so in Denmark. – But wild and whirling words, my lord. – I have heard that guilty
creatures sitting at a play have by the very cunning of the scene been struck so to the soul that presently they have proclaimed their malefactions. I’ll have the players play something like the murder of my
father before mine uncle. If he do blench, I know my course. The spirit I have seen may be a devil: and the devil hath power
To assume a pleasing shape. I’ll have grounds more relative than this. The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the
conscience of the king. The time is out of joint. O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right. (emotional orchestral music) – [Hamlet Voiceover] Doubt
thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love. O dear Ophelia, that I love thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu. Thine evermore most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him, Hamlet. (emotional horn music) – To be … (clicking) Or not to be. That is the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows
of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them? – [Hamlet Voiceover] To
die: to sleep no more; and by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache and the
thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. ‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. (gasping and coughing) 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 respect that makes
calamity of so long life; for who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor’s wrong,
the proud man’s contumely, the pangs of despised
love, the law’s delay, the insolence of office and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes, when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the fear of something … after death, the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns, puzzles the will and makes us rather
bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does
make cowards of us all; and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with
the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment with this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action. – Ophelia. Ophelia! Walk you here. Gracious, so please you,
we will bestow ourselves. Read on this book; that show of such an exercise
may colour your loneliness. (gentle music) – Soft you now. The fair Ophelia. Nymph, in thy orisons be
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 yours, that I have longed long to re-deliver; I pray you, now receive them. – No, not I. I never gave you aught. – My honoured lord, you
know right well you did; and, with them, words of
so sweet breath composed as made the things more rich. Their perfume lost, take these again, for to the noble mind rich 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 honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty. – Can beauty, my lord,
have better commerce than with honesty? – Ay, truly; for the power
of beauty will sooner transform honesty from
what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty
can translate beauty into his likeness: this
was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. (laughing) I did love you once. – Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so. – You should not have
believed me; I loved you not. (gasps) – I was the more deceived. – Get thee to a nunnery. Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest, and yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my
mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offenses at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them
scope, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves,
all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. (soft music) Where’s your father? – At home, my lord. – Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool
nowhere but in’s own house! Farewell. – O, help him, you sweet heavens! – If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Go thee ways to a nunnery. Or, if thou must needs
marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go, and quickly too. Farewell! – Heavenly powers, restore him! – I have heard of your
paintings too, well enough; God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another: you jig, and amble, and you lisp, and nick-name God’s creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t;
it hath made me mad! (screaming) I say, we will have no more marriage! those that are married
already, all but one, shall live; the rest
shall keep as they are! To a nunnery, go! Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you,
trippingly on the tongue! – O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown. The courtier’s, soldier’s,
scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword; the glass of fashion
and the mould of form, the observed of all
observers, quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, now see that noble and
most sovereign reason blasted with ecstasy! O! Woe is me. To have seen what I have seen. See what I see. (sobbing) – Love! His affections do not that way tend. There’s something in his soul, o’er which his melancholy sits on brood; and I do doubt the
hatch and disclose of it will be some danger. (curious music) – Let his queen mother
all alone entreat him to show his grief: let
her be round with him. I’ll be placed, so please you, in the ear of all their conference. If she find him not, confine him where your
wisdom best shall think. – It shall be so. Madness in great ones
must not unwatched go. (emotional horn music) – Thoughts … black, hands … apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing. – Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you,
trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as
many of our players do, I had as lief the
town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too
much with your hands, thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent,
tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of passion, you
must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. – Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time– – Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word,
the word to the action; with this special observance,
that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature:
for things so overdone are from the purpose
of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as ’twere, the
mirror up to nature. – I warrant your honor. – Go, make you ready. (dramatic horn music) Observe mine uncle. Give him heedful note. The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the
conscience of the king. Ah! – How does our cousin Hamlet? – Excellent, i’ faith; (laughing) of the chameleon’s dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed. – I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these words are not mine. – No, nor mine now. (laughing) Lights! (anxious music) Lady, shall I lie in your lap? – No, my lord. – Did you think I meant country matters? – I think nothing, my lord. – That’s a fair thought to
lie between maids’ legs. – What is, my lord? – Nothing. (discordant music) (clapping) Madam, how like you this play? – The lady doth protest too much, methinks. – O, but she’ll keep her word. – Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in ‘t? – No. (chuckling) No, they do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i’ the world. – What do you call the play? – The Mouse-trap. You shall see anon ’tis but
a knavish piece of work, but what o’ that? Your majesty and we that have free souls, it touches us not. This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king. Leave thy damnable faces, and begin. Come: ‘the croaking raven
doth bellow for revenge.’ – Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing; Confederate season,
else no creature seeing; Thou mixture rank, of
midnight weeds collected, With Hecate’s ban thrice
blasted, thrice infected, Thy natural magic and dire property, On wholesome life usurp immediately. (unnerving music) – He poisons him i’ the
garden for’s estate. You shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife. – The king rises. – What, frighted with false fire? – How fares my lord? – Give o’er the play. – Give me some light. Give me some light! (shouting) (laughter) – O good Horatio, I’ll
take the ghost’s word for a thousand pound. Didst perceive? – Very well, my lord. – Upon the talk of the poisoning? – I did very well note him. – Mother. Mother. Mother! (dramatic drumming) – He will come straight. Look you lay home to him. Tell him his pranks have
been too broad to bear, and that your grace hath
screened and stood between much heat and him. I’ll silence me even here. Pray you, be round with him. – I’ll warrant you, Fear me not. Withdraw, I hear him coming. (emotional horn music) – O heart, lose not thy nature. Let not ever the soul of
Nero enter this firm bosom. Let me be cruel, not unnatural. I will speak daggers to her, but use none. Now, mother, what’s the matter? – Hamlet, thou hast thy
father much offended. – Mother, you have my
father much offended. – Come, come, you answer
with an idle tongue. – Go, go, you question
with a wicked tongue. – Why, how now, Hamlet! – Why, what’s the matter now? – Have you forgot me? – No, by the rood, not so. You are the queen, your
husband’s brother’s wife; And, would it were not
so, you are my mother. – Nay, then, I’ll set those
to you that can speak. – Come, come, and sit you down. You shall not budge! – What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me? Help, ho! – [Polonius] What, ho! Help! – How now, a rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead! (groaning) – [Polonius] O, I am slain! – O me, what hast thou done? – Nay, I know not. Is it the king? – O, what a rash and bloody deed is this! – A bloody deed. Almost as bad, good mother, as kill a king, and
marry with his brother. – As kill a king! – Ay, lady, ’twas my word. Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool. farewell. I took thee for thy
better: take thy fortune. Leave wringing of your hands. Peace, and sit you down, and let me wring your
heart; for so I shall, if it be made of penetrable stuff. – What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue in noise
so rude against me? Look you, upon this picture, and on this, the counterfeit presentment
of two brothers. See, what a grace was seated on this brow; Hyperion’s curls; the
front of Jove himself; an eye like Mars, to threaten and command; This was your husband. Look you now, what follows, This … is your husband! Have you eyes? Ha, have you eyes? What judgment would
step from this to this? Eyes without feeling,
feeling without sight, ears without hands or
eyes, smelling sans all. O shame, where is thy blush? Rebellious hell! – O Hamlet, speak no more. Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul, and there I see such
black and grained spots as will not leave their tinct. – Nay, but to live in the
rank sweat of an enseamed bed, stewed in corruption,
honeying and making love over the nasty sty! – O, speak to me no more. These words, like daggers,
enter in mine ears. Sweet Hamlet, no more. – A murderer and a villain; a slave that is not
twentieth part the tithe of your precedent lord; a vice of kings. – O, no more! – A king of shreds and patches. (warped music) Save me, and hover o’er
me with your wings, you heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure? – Alas, he’s mad. – [Ghost] Do not forget: this visitation is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. But, look, amazement on thy mother sits. O, step between her and her fighting soul. Speak to her, Hamlet. – How is it with you, lady? – Alas, how is’t with you, that you do bend your eye on vacancy and with the incorporal
air do hold discourse? O … sweet son, whereon do you look? – On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares! Do not look upon me; lest with this piteous action
you convert my stern effects: tears perchance for blood. – O gentle son, to whom do you speak this? – Do you see nothing there? – No, nothing at all;
yet all that is I see. – Nor did you nothing hear? – No, nothing but ourselves. – Why, look you there! Look, how it steals away! My father, in his habit as he lived! Look, where he goes, even now! – This is the very coinage of your brain. This bodiless creation
ecstasy is very cunning in. – Ecstasy. My pulse as yours doth temperately keep time and makes as healthful music. It is not madness that I have uttered. Mother, for love of grace, lay not that flattering
unction to your soul, that not your trespass,
but my madness speaks. Confess yourself to heaven; Repent what’s past. Avoid what is to come. – O Hamlet, thou hast
cleft my heart in twain. – O, throw away the worser part, and live the purer with the other half. Good night, mother. But go not to mine uncle’s bed. Assume a virtue, if you have it not. And when you are desirous to be blessed, I’ll blessing beg of you. For this same lord, I do repent. But heaven hath pleased it so, to punish me with this and this with me, that I must be their scourge and minister. So, again, good night. I will bestow him, and will answer well the death I gave him. I must be cruel, only to be kind. Thus … bad begins … and worse remains behind. Goodnight, mother. (somber horn music) (gentle piano music) ♪ He is dead and gone lady ♪ ♪ He is dead and gone ♪ ♪ At his head a grass-green turf ♪ ♪ At his heels a stone. ♪ ♪ White his shroud as the mountain snow ♪ ♪ They bore him barefaced on the bier ♪ ♪ Hey nonny, nonny, ♪ ♪ Nonny, hey nonny ♪ ♪ And in his grave rained many a tear ♪ ♪ He will never come again ♪ ♪ God have mercy on his soul ♪ ♪ In youth, ♪ ♪ When I did love, did love, ♪ ♪ Methought it was very sweet ♪ ♪ To contract the time for my behove ♪ ♪ O methought it was nothing meet. ♪ (yelps) – Ha! – Has this fellow no
feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making? – Custom hath made it in
him a property of easiness. ♪ And age and his stealing steps ♪ ♪ Hath clawed me in his clutch ♪ ♪ And shipped me into the land ♪ ♪ As if I had never been such. ♪ – That skull had a tongue
in it, and could sing once. Look how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain’s jaw-bone,
that did the first murder. Whose grave’s this, sirrah? – Mine, sir. (chuckling) – I think it be thine,
for thou liest in’t. What man dost thou dig it for? – For no man, sir. – What woman, then? – For none, neither. – Who is to be buried in’t? – One that was a woman, sir, but, rest her soul, she’s dead. (laughing) – How absolute the knave is. How long will a man lie
i’ the earth ere he rot? – Well … if he be not rotten before he die, eight year or nine year. A tanner will last you nine year. – Why he more than another? – He’s been tanned in his trade, and he’ll keep the water
out for a good long time, for your water is a … sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here’s a skull that’s
been here in the earth for three and 20 year. A whoreson mad fellow it was. A pestilence on you mad
rogue, sir! (chuckling) This, sir, this skull, this skull, sir, was, sir, Yorick, the king’s jester. – Let me see. Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest,
of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his
back a thousand times; Here hung those lips that I
have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chap-fallen? Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing. – What’s that, my lord? – Dost thou think … Alexander looked o’ this
fashion i’ the earth? – E’en so. – And smelt so? Pah! – E’en so, my lord. – To what base uses we
may return, Horatio. Why may not imagination trace
the noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bung-hole? Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to
dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam;
and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might
they not stop a beer-barrel? Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. O! That thee earth, which
kept the world in awe, might patch a wall to expel the winter’s flaw. (singing) But soft, but soft! Here comes the king! The queen. Who is that that follows them,
and with such maimed rites? ♪ Silence is the loudest sound ♪ ♪ We’re gonna lay her in the ground ♪ ♪ No other souls around ♪ ♪ Deep in the ground ♪ ♪ Where silence is the only the sound ♪ – Lay her i’ the earth. And from her fair and unpolluted flesh may violets spring. – Ophelia! – Sweets to the sweet. Farewell. I hoped thou shouldst have
been my Hamlet’s wife. I thought thy bride-bed to
have decked, sweet maid, not have strewed thy grave. – Hold off the earth awhile! Until I have caught her
once more in mine arms! Now pile your dust upon
the quick and dead, until of this flat a
mountain you have made. – What is he whose grief
bears such an emphasis? This is I, Hamlet the Dane! – The devil take thy soul! – Hamlet, Hamlet! – Gentlemen! – I loved Ophelia! What wilt thou do for her? Woo’t weep? Woo’t fight, woo’t fast,
woo’t tear thyself? I’ll do’t. Dost thou come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Come, be buried quick
with her, and so will I. What is the reason that you use me thus? I loved you ever. But it is no matter. Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew and
dog will have his day. – My revenge will come – Laertes, will you be ruled by me? – Ay, my lord. – You have been talked of,
and that in Hamlet’s hearing, for art and exercise in your defense, and for your rapier most especial. This report Hamlet envenomed so deeply that he could nothing do but wish and beg your coming o’er so he
could play with you. Now to the crook of the answer. We’ll bring you in fine together
and wager on your heads. – And, for that purpose,
I’ll anoint my sword. I bought an unction of a mountebank, so mortal that, but dip a knife in it, where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, can save a thing from death
that is but scratched withal. – This project should
have a back or second. In your motion, when you are hot and dry, and he calls for drink, I’ll have made a chalice for the nonce,
whereon but sipping, for he if by chance
escapes your venomed stuck, our purpose will hold there. – Adieu, my lord. I have a speech of fire,
that fain would blaze. But that this folly doubts it. – My offense is rank it smells to heaven. It had the primal eldest curse upon it, a brother’s murder. Pray I cannot, 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? What’s in prayer but this two-fold force, to be forestalled ere we come to fall, or pardoned 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 possessed of those effects for
which I did the murder, my crown, mine own ambition and my queen. In the corrupted currents of this world offense’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. What then, what rests? Try what repentance can, what can it not? Yet what can it when one can not repent? Wretched state! 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. (uneasy music) (somber horn music) – Something is rotten
in the state of Denmark. – My lord. The king hath wagered with Laertes that in a dozen passes
between yourself and him, he shall not exceed you three hits. – ‘Tis the breathing time of day with me; let the foils be brought. – But you will lose, my lord. – I do not think so. I shall win at the odd. But thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart. (warped music) – [Ghost] List. List, O, list. If thou didst ever thy dear father love. – O God! – [Ghost] Revenge his foul
and most unnatural murder. – Murder! – [Ghost] Murder most
foul, as in the best it is; But this most foul, strange and unnatural. – Haste me to know it,
that I, with wings as swift as meditation or the thoughts of love, may sweep to my revenge. – [Ghost] I find thee apt. – If your mind dislike any thing, obey it. – Not a whit. We defy augury. There is a special providence
in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; and if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all. Since no man of aught he leaves knows, what is’t to leave betimes? – Come, Hamlet. Come take this hand. – Give me your pardon, sir. I’ve done you wrong; but
pardon’t, as you are a gentleman. Sir, in this audience, let my disclaiming from a purposed evil free me so far in your
most generous thoughts, that I have shot my arrow o’er the house, and hurt my brother. – I am satisfied in nature, whose motive, in this
case, should stir me most to my revenge: but in my terms of honour I stand aloof; and will no reconcilement. – If Hamlet give the first or second hit, or quit in answer of the third exchange, the king shall drink to
Hamlet’s better breath, and in the cup an union shall he throw, ticher than that which
four successive kings of Denmark’s crown have worn. Come, begin. (dramatic horn music) – Come, sir. – Come, my lord. (swords clanging) (grunting) – One. – No! – Judgment. – A hit, a very palpable hit. (applause) – Well, again. – Stay. Give us drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine. Here’s to your health. (glasses clinking) – I’ll play this bout
first; set it by awhile. Come. Again. (dramatic horn music) (swords scraping) (grunting) – A hit, a hit; what say you? – A touch, a touch, I do confess it. (applause) – Our son shall win. – He’s fat, and scant of breath. Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows. The queen … carouses … to thy fortune, Hamlet. – Gertrude, do not drink. – I will, my lord. I pray you pardon me. (ringing music) – It is the poisoned cup. It is too late. – Come, Laertes, for the
third: you do but dally. – Say you so? Come on! Have at thee now! (swords clanging) (shouting) – They are incensed! Part them! (dramatic music) – Look to the queen there, ho! – They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord? – How does the queen? – She swounds to see them bleed. – No, no! O my dear Hamlet, the drink, the drink! I am poisoned! – Treachery! Seek it out! – It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain. No medicine in the world can do thee good. The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, unbated and envenomed. The foul practice hath
turned itself on me. They mother’s poisoned. I can no more. The king. The king’s to blame. – The point envenomed too. Then, venom, to thy work.
(groaning) Here, thou incestuous,
treacherous, damned Dane, Drink off this potion. Thy union here? Follow my mother! (shouting) – He is justly served. It was a poison tempered by himself. – Exchange forgiveness
with me, noble Hamlet. Mine and my father’s
death fall not upon thee, nor thine on me. – Heaven make thee free of it. I follow thee. (groaning) I die, Horatio! Wretched queen, adieu! Had I but time, as this
fell sergeant, death, is strict in his arrest,
O, I could tell you. But let it be. I am dead, Horatio. Thou livest. Report me and my cause
aright to the unsatisfied. – O good Horatio, what a wretched name! Things standing thus unknown,
shall I leave behind me. If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart absent thee from felicity awhile, and in this harsh world
draw thy breath in pain, to tell my story. (groaning) I die, Horatio. The potent poison quite
o’er-crows my spirit. The rest … is silence. (groaning) – Now cracks a noble heart. Good night sweet prince, and flights of angels
sing thee to thy rest. (soft music) (gong ringing) (somber horn music) (gentle piano music)

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