"Do not forever with thy veiled lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust;
Thou knowest 'tis common, all that live must die,
Passing through nature to eternity!"
Hamlet says:
"Ay, madam, it is common."
Queen says:
"If it be,
Why seems it so particular with thee?"
And then surcharged with suspicion of her secret villainy Hamlet exclaims:
"Seems, madam! Nay it is; I know not 'seems;'
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief
That can denote me truly; these indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play;
But I have that within which passeth show,
These but the trappings and the suits of woe."
Then, after the exit of the old murder-king and his particeps criminis queen—Hamlet ponders to himself on life and death in these lofty lines:
"O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fixed
His canon against self slaughter! O God! O God!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fye on't! O Fye! 'tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!
But two months dead! nay, not so much, not two;
So excellent a King, that was, to this
Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother,
That he might not beteem the wind of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on; and yet, within a month—
Let me not think on it—frailty, thy name is woman!
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
With which she followed my poor father's body,
Like Niobe all tears; why, she, even she—
O God! a beast that wants discourse of reason
Would have mourned longer,—married with my uncle,
My father's brother, but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules; within a month;
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing of her galled eyes,
She married. O, most wicked speed to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not, nor can it come to good;
But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue!"
Laertes before his departure for France gives his sister Ophelia some advice and warns her against the blandishments of Hamlet. He says: