I hope all will be well. We must be patient, but I cannot choose
but weep, to think they should lay him i'
th' cold
45
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.
OPHELIA
I hope everything will turn out fine. We must be patient, but I
can't help crying when I think of him being laid in the
cold ground. My brother will hear about this. And so I thank you for
your good advice. Come, driver! Good night, ladies, good night,
sweet ladies, good night, good night.
Exit OPHELIA
OPHELIA exits.
CLAUDIUS
Follow her close. Give her good watch, I pray you.
CLAUDIUS
Follow her. Keep an eye on her, please.
Exit HORATIO
HORATIO exits.
Oh, this is the poison of deep grief. It springs
50
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
55
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 judgment,
60
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,
Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds,
And wants not buzzers to infect his ear
65
With pestilent speeches of his father's death,
Wherein necessity, of matter beggared,
Will nothing stick our person to arraign
In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this,
Like to a murdering piece, in many places
70
Gives me superfluous death.
Oh, her grief has poisoned her mind. Her father died and now look
at her! Oh, Gertrude, Gertrude, when bad things happen, they
don't come one at a time, like enemy spies, but all at
once like an army. First her father was killed, then your son was
taken away—because of his own violent actions. The people
are confused and spreading nasty rumors about Polonius's
death, and I was a fool to bury him in a hurry, without a proper
state funeral. Poor Ophelia has been robbed of her sanity, without
which we're just pictures, or animals. Last but not
least, her brother has secretly returned from France and is
surrounded by gossip-mongers, who fill his ears with wicked stories
about his father's death. Deprived of proper evidence,
he'll naturally attribute the murder to me. Oh, dear
Gertrude, I feel as though I'm being murdered many times
over.
