Now must your conscience my acquittance seal,
And you must put me in your heart for friend,
Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear,
That he which hath your noble father slain
Pursu’d my life.
Now you must put your conscience to rest about me—accept me as a friend. Since you've learned, and you understand well, that the man who killed your noble father also tried to kill me.
Look, I need you to accept me. Now that you know the guy who murdered your father also wanted me dead, you can see we're in this together.
i need you to accept me. the guy who killed your dad also tried to kill me
It well appears. But tell me
Why you proceeded not against these feats,
So crimeful and so capital in nature,
As by your safety, wisdom, all things else,
You mainly were stirr’d up.
That much is clear. But tell me—why didn't you take action against these crimes, so serious and capital in nature, when everything, your safety and your wisdom, should have driven you to it?
Yeah, I see that. But why haven't you done anything about it? These are serious crimes—and by all logic, you should have been all over this.
ok but why didnt you do anything? these r serious crimes
O, for two special reasons,
Which may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinew’d,
But yet to me they are strong. The Queen his mother
Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,—
My virtue or my plague, be it either which,—
She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul,
That, as the star moves not but in his sphere,
I could not but by her. The other motive,
Why to a public count I might not go,
Is the great love the general gender bear him,
Who, dipping all his faults in their affection,
Would like the spring that turneth wood to stone,
Convert his gyves to graces; so that my arrows,
Too slightly timber’d for so loud a wind,
Would have reverted to my bow again,
And not where I had aim’d them.
Well, I have two special reasons. They might seem weak to you, but they're strong to me. First, his mother the Queen—she lives for him, depends on his every look. And as for me—whether it's my virtue or my downfall, take your pick—I'm so tied to her life and soul that like a star that can only move within its orbit, I cannot help but follow her. Second, I can't bring this to a public trial because people love him too much. They'd cover all his faults with their affection—like water that turns wood into stone, they'd transform his shackles into graces. My accusations would be so weak for such a strong wind that they'd come right back at me instead of hitting him.
I've got two reasons, and yeah, they might sound weak, but trust me. The Queen—his mother—she lives for him. And honestly, I'm so connected to her that I can't move without her. But more importantly, everyone loves this guy. They'd dismiss everything I said. They'd actually turn it around and make him look better. My evidence wouldn't stand a chance against how much people care about him.
i have two reasons. 1 - his mom depends on him. 2 - everyone loves him so much they'd ignore anything i say
And so have I a noble father lost,
A sister driven into desperate terms,
Whose worth, if praises may go back again,
Stood challenger on mount of all the age
For her perfections. But my revenge will come.
And I've lost a noble father and a sister driven to desperation. Her worth, if ancient praises count for anything, challenged everyone of her time with her perfections. But my revenge will come.
I lost my father, and my sister—she was perfect, everyone knew it. But she's gone now. My revenge is coming though.
lost my dad. my sister was the best. but i'm getting revenge
Break not your sleeps for that. You must not think
That we are made of stuff so flat and dull
That we can let our beard be shook with danger,
And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more.
I lov’d your father, and we love ourself,
And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine—
Don't lose sleep over it. Don't think we're made of such flat, dull stuff that we'd let danger rattle us and treat it as a game. You'll hear more soon. I loved your father, and we love ourselves, and I hope that will teach you to imagine—
Don't stress about it. I'm not the kind of guy who shrugs off danger. I loved your father, and I care about myself too, so you can assume what I'm planning.
dont worry about it. im not soft. im going to handle this
How now? What news?
What is this? What news now?
What happened? What's the news?
whats new
Letters, my lord, from Hamlet.
This to your Majesty; this to the Queen.
Letters from Hamlet, my lord. This one is for your Majesty; this one is for the Queen.
Letters from Hamlet came in. One's for you, one's for the Queen.
letters from hamlet. 1 for u 1 for the queen
From Hamlet! Who brought them?
Letters from Hamlet? Who brought them here?
Hamlet? Who delivered these?
hamlet?? who brought these?
Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not.
They were given me by Claudio. He receiv’d them
Of him that brought them.
Sailors, they say, my lord. I didn't see them. They were given to me by Claudio. He got them from whoever brought them.
Sailors supposedly. I didn't see them myself. Claudio handed them to me—he got them from whoever showed up with them.
sailors i guess. i didnt see. claudio gave them to me
Laertes, you shall hear them.
Leave us.
Laertes, I'll read these to you. Everyone else, get out.
Laertes, I'll read them to you. Everyone else, leave.
laertes check these. everyone else bounce
[_Reads._] ‘High and mighty, you shall know I am set naked on your
kingdom. Tomorrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes. When I
shall, first asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasions of my
sudden and more strange return.
HAMLET.’
What should this mean? Are all the rest come back?
Or is it some abuse, and no such thing?
Your majesty, you should know I've returned to your kingdom without anything. Tomorrow I ask permission to see your royal eyes in person. When I do, I'll first seek your pardon, and then explain the reasons for my sudden and strange return. What could this mean? Did all the others come back too? Or is this some trick, not a real letter?
Your majesty, I'm back in your kingdom and I've got nothing. Tomorrow I'm asking to see you. First I'll apologize, then I'll tell you why I showed up so suddenly and in such a weird way. What is this supposed to mean? Did everyone come back with him? Or is this some kind of deception?
ur majesty im back in ur kingdom w nothing. tmrw asking 2 see u. ill apologize first then explain y i came back so strange wtf does this mean? did everyone come back? or is this fake?
Know you the hand?
Do you know the handwriting?
You recognize his handwriting?
u recognize the handwriting?
’Tis Hamlet’s character. ‘Naked!’
And in a postscript here he says ‘alone.’
Can you advise me?
It's Hamlet's handwriting. He says 'naked' and in a postscript he says 'alone.' What's your advice?
It's his handwriting. He's saying he's coming naked, alone. What do you make of that?
its his handwriting. he says naked and alone. wtf?
Gertrude's account of Ophelia's drowning is one of the most debated passages in the play because of what it implies about Gertrude's presence. The description is too detailed, too visually precise, for secondhand knowledge — she saw the willow, the garlands, the floating. She names the flowers: crow-flowers (fairness), nettles (stung into madness), daisies (dissembled love), long purples (also known by a cruder name suggesting male sexuality — this is Ophelia's flower, chosen with unconscious precision by a young woman destroyed partly by a man). And yet Gertrude says Ophelia fell and floated and sang and was dragged down — and does not say that she jumped in after her, or called for help, or ran for someone who could. The speech does not say Gertrude watched and did nothing. But it could mean that. It might mean that Gertrude, herself half-drowned in complicity and guilt, stood at the bank and watched the beautiful ruined young woman float past singing, and could not move. The speech is gorgeous and the question under it is terrible.
I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come,
It warms the very sickness in my heart
That I shall live and tell him to his teeth,
‘Thus diest thou.’
I don't know what to make of it, my lord. But let him come. It fires up the sickness in my heart—knowing I'll live to tell him to his face, 'This is how you die.'
I'm confused by it. But bring him on. It actually makes me feel better—the thought that I'll get to look him in the eye and say, 'This is what happens to you.'
confused. but let him come. cant wait to tell him off
If it be so, Laertes,—
As how should it be so? How otherwise?—
Will you be rul’d by me?
If that's so, Laertes—but how could it be otherwise?—will you let me guide you?
If that's really what's happening, will you listen to me? Will you do what I suggest?
if thats true will u do what i say?
Ay, my lord;
So you will not o’errule me to a peace.
Yes, my lord, as long as you don't force me toward peace.
Yeah, long as you're not going to push me to make peace with him.
yea but dont force me to make peace
To thine own peace. If he be now return’d,
As checking at his voyage, and that he means
No more to undertake it, I will work him
To an exploit, now ripe in my device,
Under the which he shall not choose but fall;
And for his death no wind shall breathe,
But even his mother shall uncharge the practice
And call it accident.
For your own peace. If he's come back now, having abandoned his voyage, and if he has no plans to leave again, I'll push him toward an enterprise I've devised that's ready to execute. He won't be able to avoid falling under it. And when he dies, no whisper of the plot will escape—even his mother will forgive me and call it an accident.
Your peace. If he's back and staying, I've got a plan that's already cooked up. He won't be able to avoid it. And when he dies, nobody will suspect a thing. His own mother won't even know it was planned.
if hes back im ready. he wont know what hit him. nobody will ever know
My lord, I will be rul’d;
The rather if you could devise it so
That I might be the organ.
My lord, I'll follow your lead, especially if you can arrange it so that I'm the one to carry out the deed.
I'm in. Especially if I can be the one to do it myself.
im in. as long as i get to do it
It falls right.
You have been talk’d of since your travel much,
And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality
Wherein they say you shine. Your sum of parts
Did not together pluck such envy from him
As did that one, and that, in my regard,
Of the unworthiest siege.
That works perfectly. Since you've traveled, people have talked about you a lot—Hamlet's heard all about it—especially about a quality where you stand out. Your talents all together didn't provoke as much envy from him as that one quality did, which in my opinion is of the lowest rank.
Perfect. You've got a reputation from your travels. Hamlet's heard about you—especially about one thing you're good at. That one thing bothers him more than anything else about you.
perfect. hes jealous of u. one thing especially
What part is that, my lord?
What is that quality, my lord?
What quality is that?
what thing?
A very riband in the cap of youth,
Yet needful too, for youth no less becomes
The light and careless livery that it wears
Than settled age his sables and his weeds,
Importing health and graveness. Two months since
Here was a gentleman of Normandy,—
I’ve seen myself, and serv’d against, the French,
And they can well on horseback, but this gallant
Had witchcraft in’t. He grew unto his seat,
And to such wondrous doing brought his horse,
As had he been incorps’d and demi-natur’d
With the brave beast. So far he topp’d my thought
That I in forgery of shapes and tricks,
Come short of what he did.
A mere ribbon in youth's cap—but necessary too. Youth wears light, carefree clothes as naturally as old age wears somber robes that show health and gravity. Two months ago there was a gentleman from Normandy. I've seen the French myself and fought against them—they're good horsemen—but this man had something magical about him. He merged with his horse so perfectly, with such wondrous skill, as if he and the beast were one body, half merged with nature. He surpassed my imagination so far that when I try to picture his feats and tricks, I fall short.
It's a young person's fancy, but also necessary. Young people wear whatever feels good, just like old people wear formal clothes. About two months ago, a nobleman from Normandy was here. I've seen French fighters and they're decent on horses, but this guy was something else. He and his horse moved like one thing—like magic. He was so good that I can't even imagine it properly.
its just what young guys care about. but necessary. there was this norman guy—amazing on a horse. unreal
A Norman was’t?
He was a Norman?
He was from Normandy?
norman?
A Norman.
A Norman.
Yes, from Normandy.
yea
Upon my life, Lamord.
Upon my life, it was Lamord.
That must have been Lamord.
lamord for sure
The very same.
The very same.
Exactly.
yea
I know him well. He is the brooch indeed
And gem of all the nation.
I know him well. He's the jewel and gem of the entire nation.
Yeah, I know him. He's the best of the best.
ya i know him. hes the best
He made confession of you,
And gave you such a masterly report
For art and exercise in your defence,
And for your rapier most especially,
That he cried out ’twould be a sight indeed
If one could match you. The scrimers of their nation
He swore had neither motion, guard, nor eye,
If you oppos’d them. Sir, this report of his
Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy
That he could nothing do but wish and beg
Your sudden coming o’er to play with him.
Now, out of this,—
He spoke highly of you and gave you such a masterful reputation for your skill and swordsmanship—your rapier especially—that he said it would be a marvel to see anyone match you. He swore that the fencers of his nation had neither the grace, the defense, nor the eye if they faced you. This report of his so poisoned Hamlet with envy that he could do nothing but desperately wish and beg for you to come quickly and fence with him. Now, from this—
He talked you up big time. Said nobody in France could touch you with a sword. Hamlet heard all this and got so jealous he basically begged to fence with you. So here's what I'm thinking—
he praised u so much. hamlet got jealous. wanted to fight u. so—
What out of this, my lord?
What from this, my lord?
What are you getting at?
what r u saying?
Laertes, was your father dear to you?
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow,
A face without a heart?
Laertes, did you truly love your father? Or are you simply performing grief, like a mere portrait of sorrow with no heart inside it?
Laertes, did you love your father? Or are you just pretending to grieve, like a picture of sadness with no real feeling behind it?
did u love ur dad? or r u just pretending?
Claudius and Laertes's fencing-match scheme is Shakespeare's most carefully engineered plot device — and it is careful to the point of excess. The poisoned sword is the primary weapon. The poisoned cup is the backup in case the sword fails. If Hamlet drinks at any point, he dies. If he is scratched, he dies. If he somehow wins and is unscratched and drinks nothing — but that cannot happen because Laertes won't let it. The plan has no failure mode except betrayal. What Shakespeare knows, and what Claudius does not, is that over-engineering a death trap in a play means the playwright can spring it on anyone. The poisoned cup does not care about intentions. It sits there, available, beautiful, full of death — and Gertrude drinks from it because she is celebrating what she thinks is her son's success. The trap is too good and catches the wrong person. This is the logic of hubris in Shakespearean tragedy: the more perfectly a villain designs a death, the more certainly it will rebound.
Why ask you this?
What's the point of that question?
Why are you asking me that?
why?
Not that I think you did not love your father,
But that I know love is begun by time,
And that I see, in passages of proof,
Time qualifies the spark and fire of it.
There lives within the very flame of love
A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it;
And nothing is at a like goodness still,
For goodness, growing to a pleurisy,
Dies in his own too much. That we would do,
We should do when we would; for this ‘would’ changes,
And hath abatements and delays as many
As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents;
And then this ‘should’ is like a spendthrift sigh
That hurts by easing. But to the quick o’ th’ulcer:
Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake
To show yourself your father’s son in deed,
More than in words?
I'm not saying you didn't love your father. But I know that love starts with time, and I see that time weakens the spark of it. Love has a wick or snuff inside it that will burn it down. Nothing stays at the same goodness forever. When goodness grows to excess, it dies in its own abundance. What we intend to do, we should do when we mean it—but this intention changes, and gets held back and delayed as many times as there are people, as many times as accidents occur. And then this intention becomes like a spendthrift's sigh—it hurts us while it seems to ease us. But to the heart of the matter: Hamlet is coming back. What would you do to prove yourself your father's son in action, not just in words?
I'm not saying you didn't love him. But love fades over time—it just does. It burns out. The longer you wait to do something, the less you want to do it. Intentions change, get delayed, and eventually you realize you're just going through the motions. The point is: Hamlet's coming back. What are you actually going to do to show you're your father's son? Talk is cheap.
love fades. time makes u forget. intentions change. whats it gonna be? r u gonna actually do something or just talk?
To cut his throat i’ th’ church.
To cut his throat in the church.
Cut his throat. I don't care where.
slit his throat
No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize;
Revenge should have no bounds. But good Laertes,
Will you do this, keep close within your chamber.
Hamlet return’d shall know you are come home:
We’ll put on those shall praise your excellence,
And set a double varnish on the fame
The Frenchman gave you, bring you in fine together
And wager on your heads. He, being remiss,
Most generous, and free from all contriving,
Will not peruse the foils; so that with ease,
Or with a little shuffling, you may choose
A sword unbated, and in a pass of practice,
Requite him for your father.
No place should protect a murderer. Revenge should know no bounds. But listen, Laertes, do this: stay hidden in your room. When Hamlet learns you've come home, we'll set things up to praise your skill and add more glory to your French reputation. We'll bring you two together and make a wager on the match. He's careless, generous, and unsuspicious—he won't inspect the swords carefully. So with ease, or just a little switching, you can choose an unbated sword, and in a practice bout, you can kill him for your father.
Murder shouldn't get protection anywhere. Get your revenge all the way. Here's the plan: stay in your room. When Hamlet finds out you're home, we'll set up this fencing match—say it's to show off how good you are from France. He won't check the swords carefully because he's trusting like that. You can grab a real sword and kill him while he thinks you're just practicing.
hide. well say its a match. he wont notice u switched to a real sword. kill him
I will do’t.
And for that purpose I’ll anoint my sword.
I bought an unction of a mountebank
So mortal that, but dip a knife in it,
Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare,
Collected from all simples that have virtue
Under the moon, can save the thing from death
This is but scratch’d withal. I’ll touch my point
With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly,
It may be death.
I'll do it. And for that purpose I'll poison my sword. I bought a toxin from a quack so deadly that if you just dip a blade in it, wherever it draws blood, no rare poultice—collected from all the medicines that have power under the moon—can save that thing from death if it's just scratched with it. I'll touch my point with this poison, so that even if I barely wound him, it could be death.
I'll do it. I've got this poison from some guy that's so deadly—just a scratch with it and there's no cure. I'll put it on my sword point, so even if I barely touch him, he's done for.
im doing it. ive got poison. just a scratch and hes dead
Let’s further think of this,
Weigh what convenience both of time and means
May fit us to our shape. If this should fail,
And that our drift look through our bad performance.
’Twere better not assay’d. Therefore this project
Should have a back or second, that might hold
If this did blast in proof. Soft, let me see.
We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings,—
I ha’t! When in your motion you are hot and dry,
As make your bouts more violent to that end,
And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him
A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping,
If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck,
Our purpose may hold there.
Let's think further about this and weigh what circumstances of time and means could work for us. If this fails and our plan shows through our poor execution, it would be better not to try. So this scheme should have a backup plan that works if this one fails in practice. Wait, I've got it! We'll make a solemn wager on your skill. I have it! When you're hot and sweaty from the fight, and we make the bouts more violent for that reason, and he asks for a drink, I'll have prepared a cup for him. If he takes just a sip from it and by chance escapes your poisoned sword thrust, our purpose is still secured.
We need to think this through. We need a backup plan in case the sword thing doesn't work. I got it—we'll make a big deal about the match and the bet. When he gets thirsty and asks for a drink during the fight, I'll have a poisoned cup ready for him. So no matter what, he's getting killed.
backup plan. if poison doesnt work ill give him poisoned drink
How now, sweet Queen?
How are things now, sweet Queen?
How are you doing, Queen?
how u doing
One woe doth tread upon another’s heel,
So fast they follow. Your sister’s drown’d, Laertes.
One tragedy follows close on the heels of another. They come so fast. Your sister has drowned, Laertes.
Bad news just keeps coming. Your sister drowned, Laertes.
ur sister drowned
Drown’d! O, where?
Drowned? Where?
Drowned? Where? How?
where?? how??
There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoary leaves in the glassy stream.
There with fantastic garlands did she make
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them.
There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke,
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide,
And mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up,
Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element. But long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
There is a willow that grows slanting over a brook, its grey leaves reflected in the glassy water. There she made fancy garlands of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples—which loose shepherds give a coarser name, but our chaste maids call them dead men's fingers. As she was climbing to hang her garland wreaths on the hanging branches, a malicious branch broke, and down went her weedy wreaths and she herself into the weeping brook. Her clothes spread out, and like a mermaid they held her up for a while, and during that time she sang snatches of old songs, like someone unaware of her own danger, or like a creature born and suited to that water. But it couldn't last long. Soon her clothes, heavy with water, pulled the poor creature down from her song into muddy death.
There's this willow tree over a stream. She was there making flower crowns—different kinds of flowers mixed together. She was hanging them on the branches when one broke and she fell in. Her clothes spread out and kept her floating for a bit, and she kept singing old songs like she didn't even realize what was happening. But then the water got too heavy and pulled her down.
she fell in a stream. was singing. clothes got heavy. drowned
Alas, then she is drown’d?
So she's drowned then?
So she drowned?
shes dead?
Drown’d, drown’d.
Drowned, drowned.
Yes, drowned.
drowned
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,
And therefore I forbid my tears. But yet
It is our trick; nature her custom holds,
Let shame say what it will. When these are gone,
The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord,
I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze,
But that this folly douts it.
You have too much water now, poor Ophelia. So I'm holding back my tears. But it's our nature—we can't help it. Let shame say what it wants. When these tears are gone, I'll stop being a woman. Goodbye, my lord. I have a speech of fire that wants to burn, but this madness is smothering it.
You've had too much water, Ophelia. I'm not going to cry. It's just what we do—cry when we're sad. Once these tears dry, I'll stop this. I've got anger burning inside me, but right now I'm too overwhelmed to speak.
no more tears. im done being sad. got too much fire inside rn
Let’s follow, Gertrude;
How much I had to do to calm his rage!
Now fear I this will give it start again;
Therefore let’s follow.
Let's follow, Gertrude. It took all my effort to calm his rage! Now I fear this news will set it off again. So let's follow him.
Let's go after him, Gertrude. I barely got him to calm down before, and now this is going to set him off all over again.
lets go after him. hes gonna lose it
The Reckoning
This is the scene where the trap is built and then the death that changes everything intervenes. Claudius and Laertes together are more dangerous than either separately: Laertes has the righteous fury of a bereaved son, Claudius has the cold competence of a professional villain. They design the perfect murder — a public accident, a poisoned blade, a backup plan (the poisoned cup) in case the sword fails. It is meticulous. And then Gertrude enters. Her account of Ophelia's death is one of the greatest set-piece descriptions in all of Shakespeare — the willow speech is not narrated from horror or grief but from a strange, suspended, painterly attention, as if she watched every detail and could not move. Laertes has been trying not to cry through this entire scene; Ophelia's death breaks him. The trap is set, the bait is in place, and Ophelia is dead. Everything is in position for the finale.
If this happened today…
Two men plan a murder together — one cold-blooded, one consumed by genuine grief. They go over every detail of the setup: the weapon, the backup, the timing, the witnesses. Then the phone rings. The man they both loved — differently, insufficiently — has been found in a river. The cold one pauses, then continues planning. The one with grief finally cries.