O, 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 cursed 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 forestalled ere we come to fall,
Or pardon’d being down?  Then I’ll look up;
My fault is past.  But, O, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn?  Forgive me my foul murder!—­
That cannot be; since I am still possess’d
Of those effects for which I did the murder,—­
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. 
May one be pardon’d and retain the offence? 
In the corrupted currents of this world
Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice;
And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law; but ’tis not so above;
There is no shuffling;—­there the action lies
In his true nature; and we ourselves compell’d,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence.  What then? what rests? 
Try what repentance can:  what can it not? 
Yet what can it when one cannot repent? 
O wretched state!  O bosom black as death! 
O limed soul, that, struggling to be free,
Art more engag’d!  Help, angels!  Make assay: 
Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart, with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe! 
All may be well.

[Retires and kneels.]

[Enter Hamlet.]

Ham. 
Now might I do it pat, now he is praying;
And now I’ll do’t;—­and so he goes to heaven;
And so am I reveng’d.—­that would be scann’d: 
A villain kills my father; and for that,
I, his sole son, do this same villain send
To heaven. 
O, this is hire and salary, not revenge. 
He took my father grossly, full of bread;
With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May;
And how his audit stands, who knows save heaven? 
But in our circumstance and course of thought,
’Tis heavy with him:  and am I, then, reveng’d,
To take him in the purging of his soul,
When he is fit and season’d for his passage? 
No. 
Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent: 
When he is drunk asleep; or in his rage;
Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed;
At gaming, swearing; or about some act
That has no relish of salvation in’t;—­
Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven;
And that his soul may be as damn’d and black
As hell, whereto it goes.  My mother stays: 
This physic but prolongs thy sickly days.

[Exit.]

[The King rises and advances.]

King. 
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: 
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.