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No Fear Shakespeare
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Hamlet
No Fear Shakespeare
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 ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN
  We will haste us.
ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN
We'll hurry.
Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN
ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN exit.
Enter POLONIUS
POLONIUS enters.
 POLONIUS
  My lord, he's going to his mother's closet.
  Behind the arras I'll convey myself
30 To hear the process. I'll warrant she'll tax him home.
  And, as you said (and wisely was it said)
  'Tis meet that some more audience than a mother—
  Since nature makes them partial—should o'erhear
  The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege.
35 I'll call upon you ere you go to bed
  And tell you what I know.
POLONIUS
My lord, Hamlet's going to his mother's room. I'll hide behind the tapestry to hear what they say. I bet she'll chew him out. And as you said (and you said it wisely), it's good to have someone other than a mother listening in on them, since she can be too partial to him. Goodbye, my lord. I'll stop by before you go to bed, and tell you what I've heard.
 CLAUDIUS
                                  Thanks, dear my lord.
CLAUDIUS
Thanks, my dear lord.
Exit POLONIUS
POLONIUS exits.
  Oh, my offence is rank. It smells to heaven.
  It hath the primal eldest curse upon 't,
  A brother's murder. Pray can I not.
40 Though inclination be as sharp as will,
  My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent,
  And, like a man to double business bound,
  I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
  And both neglect. What if this cursèd hand
45 Were thicker than itself with brother's blood?
  Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
  To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy
  But to confront the visage of offence?
  And what's in prayer but this twofold force,
50 To be forestallèd ere we come to fall
  Or pardoned being down? Then I'll look up.
  My fault is past. But oh, what form of prayer
  Can serve my turn, “Forgive me my foul murder”?
Oh, my crime is so rotten it stinks all the way to heaven. It has the mark of Cain on it, a brother's murder. I can't pray, though I want to desperately. My guilt is stronger even than my intentions. And like a person with two opposite things to do at once, I stand paralyzed and neglect them both. So what if this cursed hand of mine is coated with my brother's blood? Isn't there enough rain in heaven to wash it clean as snow? Isn't that what God's mercy is for? And doesn't prayer serve these two purposes—to keep us from sinning and to bring us forgiveness when we have sinned? So I'll pray. I've already committed my sin. But, oh, what kind of prayer is there for me? “Dear Lord, forgive me for my horrible murder”?

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No Fear Shakespeare
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