_Queen._ O, Hamlet, speak no more: Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul; And there I see such black and grainèd spots As will not leave their tinct.[128]
_Ham._ Nay, but to live In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,----[129]
_Queen._ O, speak to me no more; No more, sweet Hamlet!
_Ham._ A murderer and a villain: A slave that is not twentieth part the tythe Of your precedent lord;--a vice of kings;[130] A cutpurse of the empire and the rule; That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, And put it in his pocket![131]
_Ham._ A king Of shreds and patches.[132]
and hover o'er me with your wings, You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure?
_Ham._ (L.) Do you not come your tardy son to chide, That, laps'd in time and passion,[133] lets go by The important acting of your dread command? O, say!
_Ghost._ (R.) 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.
_Queen._ Alas, how is't with you, That you do bend your eye on vacancy, And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep. O gentle son,
Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper Sprinkle cool patience.[134] Whereon do you look?
_Ham._ On him, on him!--Look you, how pale he glares! His form and cause conjoin'd, preaching to stones, Would make them capable.[135] Do not look upon me; Lest with this piteous action, you convert My stern effects:[136] then what I have to do Will want true colour; tears perchance, for blood.
_Queen._ Nothing at all; yet all that is, I see.[137]
_Ham._ Why, look you there! look, how it steals away!
My father in his habit as he lived![138] Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal!
[_Exit_ Ghost, L.H. HAMLET _sinks into chair_ C. _The_ QUEEN _falls on her knees by his side._]
_Queen._ This is the very coinage of your brain: This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in.[139]
_Ham._ Ecstasy! My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, And makes as healthful music: It is not madness That I have uttered: bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word; which madness Would gambol from.[140] Mother, for love of grace,