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HAMLET . Ay , so , God b ’ wi ’ ye . Now I am alone . O what a rogue and peasant slave am I ! Is it not monstrous that this player here , But in a fiction , in a dream of passion , Could force his soul so to his own conceit That from her working all his visage wan’d ; Tears in his eyes , distraction in’s aspect , A broken voice , and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit ? And all for nothing ! For Hecuba ? What’s Hecuba to him , or he to Hecuba , That he should weep for her ? What would he do , Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have ? He would drown the stage with tears And cleave the general ear with horrid speech ; Make mad the guilty , and appal the free , Confound the ignorant , and amaze indeed , The very faculties of eyes and ears . Yet I , A dull and muddy - mettled rascal , peak Like John - a - dreams , unpregnant of my cause , And can say nothing . No , not for a king Upon whose property and most dear life A damn’d defeat was made . Am I a coward ? Who calls me villain , breaks my pate across ? Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face ? Tweaks me by the nose , gives me the lie i ’ th ’ throat As deep as to the lungs ? Who does me this ? Ha ! ’ Swounds , I should take it : for it cannot be But I am pigeon - liver’d , and lack gall To make oppression bitter , or ere this I should have fatted all the region kites With this slave’s offal . Bloody , bawdy villain ! Remorseless , treacherous , lecherous , kindless villain ! Oh vengeance ! Why , what an ass am I ! This is most brave , That I , the son of a dear father murder’d , Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell , Must , like a whore , unpack my heart with words And fall a - cursing like a very drab , A scullion ! Fie upon’t ! Foh ! About , my brain ! 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 proclaim’d their malefactions . For murder , though it have no tongue , will speak With most miraculous organ . I’ll have these players Play something like the murder of my father Before mine uncle . I’ll observe his looks ; I’ll tent him to the quick . If he but blench , I know my course . The spirit that I have seen May be the devil , and the devil hath power T’assume a pleasing shape , yea , and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy , As he is very potent with such spirits , Abuses me to damn me . I’ll have grounds More relative than this . The play’s the thing Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King . [ Exit . ] ACT III SCENE I . A room in the Castle . Enter King , Queen , Polonius , Ophelia , Rosencrantz and Guildenstern . KING . And can you by no drift of circumstance Get from him why he puts on this confusion , Grating so harshly all his days of quiet With turbulent and dangerous lunacy ? ROSENCRANTZ . He does confess he feels himself distracted , But from what cause he will by no means speak . GUILDENSTERN . Nor do we find him forward to be sounded , But with a crafty madness keeps aloof When we would bring him on to some confession Of his true state . QUEEN . Did he receive you well ? ROSENCRANTZ . Most like a gentleman . GUILDENSTERN . But with much forcing of his disposition .
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