_Ham._

(_Returning._)

Nay, I know not:
Is it the king?

_Queen._ O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!

_Ham._ A bloody deed!--almost as bad, good mother,
As kill a king, and marry with his brother.

_Queen._ As kill a king!

_Ham._ Ay, lady, 'twas my word.

[_Goes off behind the arras, and returns._]

Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!

[_To the dead body of_ POLONIUS, _behind the arras_.]

I took thee for thy better.
Leave wringing of your hands: Peace; sit you down,

[_To the_ QUEEN.]

And let me wring your heart: for so I shall,
If it be made of penetrable stuff;
If damned custom have not brazed it so,[117]
That it be proof and bulwark against sense.[118]

_Queen._

(_Sits_ R.C.)

What have I done, that thou dar'st wag thy tongue
In noise so rude against me?

_Ham._

(_Seated_ L.C.)

Such an act,
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty;
Calls virtue, hypocrite; takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And sets a blister there;[119] makes marriage vows
As false as dicer's oaths: O, such a deed
As from the body of contraction plucks
The very soul;[120] and sweet religion makes
A rhapsody of words.--
Ah, me, that act!

_Queen._ Ah me, what act?

_Ham._ Look here, upon this picture, and on this,
The counterfeit presentment[121] of two brothers.
See, what a grace was seated on this brow;
Hyperion's curls;[122] the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
A station like the herald Mercury[123]
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
A combination, and a form, indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man;
This was your husband.--Look you now, what follows:
Here is your husband; like a mildew'd ear,
Blasting his wholesome brother.[124] Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor?[125] Ha! have you eyes?
You cannot call it love; for, at your age
The hey-day in the blood[126] is tame, it's humble,
And waits upon the judgment: And what judgment
Would step from this to this?
O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,
If thou canst mutine,[127] in a matron's bones,
To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,
And melt in her own f