Act III, scene 5* -- A cupboard in the castle.
[Enter hamlet, bottle in hand, sitting on a blanket amid a mass of empty bottles]
hamlet. To quaff, or not to quaff: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or take upon thyself a living-sleep,
And thus to dream throughout misery.
To drink: to sleep, no more; and so to put away
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ‘tis to defer
Devoutly to be wish’d. To drink, to sleep:
To sleep: followed by wake: aye, there’s the rub;
For after that life-sleep what pains may come,
How they might be magnified by crapulence.
Thus the consequences of sleep…
[Enter horatio.]
horatio. What do you say, my lord?
hamlet. Ah, Horatio, good ally and sensible friend,
I do not know what I speak.
horatio. Are you drunk, my lord?
hamlet. Nay, nay, ‘tis these bottles that are drunk.
horatio. As I see, a veritable alp in itself.
hamlet. I shall have a range before I am doused.
horatio. What brings about such intemperance, my lord?
hamlet. Specters… Yes, specters begin such an episode.
Specters claiming foul play… I suppose they hear
Of such fowls in the heavens. Yes, such specters return to our realm,
Return to pass out quests to those they’ve left behind.
Many mystics tell of ghosts returning to unfinished business,
Unfinished for they lie about. They then give the business
To their heirs to carry out. The heirs are haunted, they say.
Haunted, by spirit and mind. To follow the orders of the dead,
To obey those who found themselves woken in Hades.
To belch out against the womb, to slay, in hopes of escaping the haunt.
horatio. To slay, my lord?
hamlet. Aye. [Stands to reveal the body of polonius under blanket.]
horatio. Alack! How did you come upon him?
hamlet. By sword and curtain. He, hiding behind the curtain,
Made a sudden noise. My sword flew to my hand and, slah,
I made a pass through the arras. I took his body away and dragged it
Until I came upon a horde of amber. I paused to rest
And to take a swig to regain my strength.
As I took the bottle from my lips, I noticed a deep easing
Of my troubles. I continued to find my
Peace in these further bottles.
horatio. You speak too much, my lord.
You have not heard that silence is golden?
hamlet. Golden, yes. Polonius was golden.
Look what all his gold has done for him.
horatio. You are to pass on to England,
But now you’ve passed on Polonius?
hamlet. Such has occurred.
horatio. Come, you should carry out your
Processional for Poor Polonius.
hamlet. Mayhap not yet, Horatio. Let me take just one more.
horatio. Oh no, my lord! I have been your friend all this while!
hamlet. Fear not, droll Horatio. I mean liquors, not lives.
horatio. No doubt I am relieved at that, my lord.
[hamlet drinks.]
hamlet. Ah! Such a draught takes the painful edge away from life.
horatio. Come now, my lord, let us take away the shell of Polonius.
hamlet. Alas, Polonius! So shortly after it is chased away,
The sharp reality returns, so agonizing…
His life was taken, he now dwells far above,
Or perhaps below…
Or perhaps, even here, in this plane.
Perhaps his spirit has taken swift
To France, to Laertes.
Will the father tell the son of his demise?
horatio. My lord, your brain spins out of control.
Before you were acting, but now are you still of mind?
hamlet. And what of Ophelia?
I loved her, did I not?
Such a blow she will be dealt with the
News of her father’s passing.
She will be fine, with time, Horatio?
horatio. I doubt as such.
Death doth wreak the mind…
hamlet. Oh foul repercussions! How the pains
Flow out an’ in, like the tides,
Again and again. One hurts a second,
This other hurts another, the first is
Hurt, and thus hurts again.
Again the first slashes out, hurting a fourth.
The fourth comes back to the second, hurt again,
And then kills the third, hurting a fifth.
The fifth hurts the fourth, and follows the
Foul line of pain back to the second and first
Hurting both, which strike at a sixth, as
They are pained by the fifth. A seventh is then--
[horatio slaps hamlet.]
horatio. Take a hold on yourself, my lord!
hamlet. Kind Horatio, hurts to heal.
Such is irony, I suppose.
horatio. Come now, my lord, and take away poor Polonius.
[Exeunt horatio and hamlet with body of polonius.]
* Taking place shortly after Hamlet kills Polonius by mistake.