Get this No Fear to go!
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ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN
We will haste us.
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ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN
We’ll hurry.
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Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and
GUILDENSTERN
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ROSENCRANTZ and
GUILDENSTERN exit. |
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Enter POLONIUS
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POLONIUS enters. |
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30 35 |
POLONIUS
My lord, he’s going to his mother’s closet.
Behind the arras I’ll convey myself
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.
I’ll call upon you ere you go to bed
And tell you what I know.
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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.
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CLAUDIUS
Thanks, dear my
lord.
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CLAUDIUS
Thanks, my dear lord.
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Exit POLONIUS
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POLONIUS exits. |
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40 45 50 |
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.
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
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,
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”?
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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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