Act IV, Scene 5 — Ophelia's Madness

I will not speak with her.

She is importunate, indeed distract. Her mood will needs be pitied.

What would she have?

She speaks much of her father, says she hears there's tricks i' th' world, and hems, and beats her heart, spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in doubt that carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing, yet the unshaped use of it doth move the hearers to collection. They yawn at it, and botch the words up fit to their own thoughts, which, as her winks and nods and gestures yield them, indeed would make one think there might be thought, though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.

Let her come in.

To my sick soul, as sin's true nature is, each toy seems prologue to some great amiss. So full of artless jealousy is guilt, it spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark?

How now, Ophelia?

How should I your true love know from another one? By his cockle hat and staff, and his sandal shoon.

Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?

Say you? Nay, pray you, mark. He is dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone; at his head a grass-green turf, at his heels a stone.

Nay, but, Ophelia—

Pray you, mark. White his shroud as the mountain snow, larded all with sweet flowers; which bewept to the ground did not go with true-love showers.

How do you, pretty lady?

Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table!

Conceit upon her father.

Pray let's have no words of this, but when they ask you what it means, say you this: Tomorrow is Saint Valentine's day, all in the morning betime, and I a maid at your window, to be your Valentine. Then up he rose, and donned his clothes, and dupped the chamber door; let in the maid, that out a maid never departed more.

Pretty Ophelia—

Indeed, la, without an oath, I'll make an end on't. By Gis, and by Saint Charity, alack and fie for shame, young men will do't if they come to't—by cock, they are to blame. Quoth she, "Before you tumbled me, you promised me to wed." He answers: "So would I ha' done, by yonder sun, an thou hadst not come to my bed."

How long hath she been thus?

I hope all will be well. We must be patient. But I cannot choose but weep to think they would lay him i' th' cold ground. My brother shall know of it. And so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies, good night. Sweet ladies, good night, good night.

O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs all from her father's death—and now behold! O Gertrude, Gertrude, when sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions: first, her father slain; next, your son gone, and he most violent author of his own just remove; the people muddied, thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers for good Polonius' death; and we have done but greenly in hugger-mugger to inter him; poor Ophelia divided from herself and her fair judgement, without the which we are pictures or mere beasts; last, and as much containing as all these, her brother is in secret come from France.

Where is this king?—Sirs, stand you all without.

O thou vile king, give me my father!

Calmly, good Laertes.

That drop of blood that's calm proclaims me bastard, cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot even here between the chaste unsmirched brow of my true mother.

What is the cause, Laertes, that thy rebellion looks so giant-like? Let him go, Gertrude. Do not fear our person. There's such divinity doth hedge a king that treason can but peep to what it would, acts little of his will. Tell me, Laertes, why thou art thus incensed. Let him go, Gertrude. Speak, man.

Where is my father?

Dead.

But not by him!

Let him demand his fill.

How came he dead? I'll not be juggled with. To hell, allegiance! Vows, to the blackest devil! Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation. To this point I stand, that both the worlds I give to negligence, let come what comes, only I'll be revenged most throughly for my father.

O heat, dry up my brains! Tears seven times salt burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye! By heaven, thy madness shall be paid with weight till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! O heavens, is't possible a young maid's wits should be as mortal as an old man's life?

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

A document in madness: thoughts and remembrance fitted.

There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me; we may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died. They say he made a good end.

Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself she turns to favour and to prettiness.

And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead, go to thy death-bed, he never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, all flaxen was his poll. He is gone, he is gone, and we cast away moan. God ha' mercy on his soul! And of all Christians' souls, I pray God. God be wi' you.