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 pardoned, 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 possessed
Of those effects for which I did the murder,--
My crown, my own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardoned and retain the offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice,
And oft 't is seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law; but 't is not so above.
There is no shuffling; there the action lies
In its true nature; and we ourselves compelled,
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[50]
returned to me with a sad interest since his own assassination,--“There is one passage of the play of” Hamlet “which is very apt to be slurred over by the actor, or omitted altogether, which seems to me the choicest part of the play.
It is the soliloquy of the king, after the murder.
It always struck me as one of the finest touches of nature in the world.”
Then, throwing himself into the very spirit of the scene, he took up the words:--
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