An apartment in Polonius’s house.
LAERTES AND OPHELIA enter .
LAERTES.—My baggage is embarked; farewell! And now, sister, when the winds give opportunity, and a train comes to our aid, do not sleep, but give me news of you.
OPHELIA.—Can you doubt it?
LAERTES.—As for Hamlet, and the sport of his courtesies, consider it a fashion’s fancy and sport his blood plays with,—like a violet born in the youth of nature’s awakening,—hasty, but fleeting, sweet, but without duration; a minute’s fragrance and distraction, nothing more.
OPHELIA.—What! nothing more?
LAERTES.—No, believe me, nothing more; for nature, in her progress, not only develops the muscles and bulk of the body, but as this temple grows, so do the burdens of their inward dignity extend as widely for thought and soul. Perhaps he loves you now; perhaps no defilement, no fraud now impairs the virtue of his wills; but you must fear, in weighing his greatness, that his wills are not his own. He is himself subject to his birth; it is not possible for him, as for people who do not count, to carve out his own destiny, for on his choice depend the safety and health of the whole state; and therefore his choice must be restricted to what the body of which he is the head requires or allows. If then Hamlet says he loves you, it is your wisdom to believe him only to that extent, according to his proper part and rank, his right to act as he has spoken can go, that is, only to that extent, to which the great voice of Denmark can go with him. Weigh then the loss your honor would have to suffer, if, with too credulous an ear, you listened to his songs, or lost your heart, or opened to his unbridled importunities the treasure of your chastity. Fear this, Ophelia, fear this, dear sister; keep always on this side of your affection, beyond the reach and danger of desires. The most self-restrained virgin is prodigal enough if she unmasks her beauty to the gaze of the moon. Even virtue does not escape the shafts of calumny; the worm gnaws the children of spring, too often even before their buds are open; and it is in the morning of youth, under its limpid dews, that contagious breaths have more threats. Be prudent then; the best safeguard is fear: quite often youth rebels of its own accord, although it has no one near it to push it to do so.
OPHELIA.—I will keep the impression of this salutary lesson, as a guardian to my heart. But, my good brother, do not be like some rough shepherds: show me not a steep and thorny road to heaven, and, like a boastful and careless libertine, follow himself the flowery path of license, and care little for his own lessons.
LAERTES.—Oh! fear not for me. I tarry too long. But here comes my father. ( Enter Polonius . ) A double blessing is a double favor. The opportunity smiles on me for a second farewell.
POLONIUS.—Here again, Laertes! Aboard, aboard! It’s a shame: the wind is there driving at the back of your sail, and you keep yourselves waiting! Come, my blessing be with you ( he puts his hand on Laertes’s head ); and think to engrave in your memory these few precepts: “Give not all your thoughts a tongue, nor any uncalculated thought its execution. Be familiar, but never commonplace. The friends you have, whose choice is tried, fasten to your soul with steel clamps; but do not wear out the palm of your hand in celebrating every comrade hatched yesterday and still without feathers. Beware of starting a quarrel; but once engaged, behave yourself so that the adversary takes heed of you. Give ear to all, but give your words to few. Collect the opinion of all, but reserve your judgment. Let your clothes be as expensive as your purse allows, without unusual refinement; rich, without being flashy; for the fit often reveals the man; and the most distinguished people in France by their rank and position are, above all in this, models of taste and dignity. Be neither a borrower nor a lender, for lending often causes the loss of both money and a friend, and borrowing blunts the edge of economy. This above all: be true to yourself; and, as night follows day, it must follow that you cannot be false to anyone.” Farewell! May my blessing penetrate all this into you.
LAERTES.—I humbly take leave of you, my lord.
POLONIUS.—The hour calls for you. Go, your servants await you.
LAERTES.—Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well what I have said to you.
OPHELIA.—It is locked up in my memory, and you yourself shall keep the key.
LAERTES.—Farewell!
(Laertes exits.)
POLONIUS.—What is it, Ophelia? what did he say to you?
OPHELIA.—It is, if you please, something concerning Lord Hamlet.
POLONIUS.—Certainly, it is very fitting. I am told that of late he has been very often giving you his private leisure, and that you yourself have been very liberal and prodigal with your audiences; if this be so (as I have been told, by way of precaution), I must tell you, you do not understand clearly enough for yourself what is proper for my daughter and your honor. What is it between you? confide the truth to me.
OPHELIA.—He hath of late, my lord, made me many offers of his affection.
POLONIUS.—His affection? Bah! you speak like a young girl, yet quite green, that hath not been sifted under circumstances of this peril; do you believe his offers, as you call them?
OPHELIA.—I know not, my lord, what I ought to think.
POLONIUS.—Well, I’ll tell you. Consider you are but a little child, and have taken for your face offers that are but false money. Offer yourself a rate dearer than your worth, or (not to make that poor word, which I thus abuse, breathless any longer) you will have nothing to do but offer me the title of fool.
OPHELIA.—My lord, he has troubled me with his love, but in an honourable way.
POLONIUS.—Ah! yes. You may call it fine manners!… Go, go!
OPHELIA.—And he gave authority to his speeches, my lord, by almost all the holiest oaths in heaven.
POLONIUS.—Ah! yes, snares to catch woodcocks! I know, when the blood burns, how prodigal the soul is in swearing to the tongue. They are flashes, my daughter, giving more light than heat, which immediately lose heat and light, and whose very promises are extinguished as soon as made. You must not take them for fire. From this hour, be a little more sparing of your virginal presence; set your conversations higher, and let not your conversation be at command. As for Lord Hamlet, what you must believe is that he is young, and is allowed to go to the end of a longer tether than yours can be. In short, Ophelia, believe not his oaths; they are wheedlers, not the color they are outwardly clothed in; They are nothing but brokers of very profane projects, who seem to breathe only holy and devout entreaties, in order to better deceive. Once and for all, and to speak clearly, I do not want you henceforth to misuse your leisure in speaking to Lord Hamlet, or in listening to him; take care, listen, and go your way.
OPHELIA.—I will obey, my lord.
