Good night, sweet princess, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!                           Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio…                           Imperious Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.                           Let me not think on't! Frailty, thy name is woman!                           My father's spirit––in arms! All is not well, I doubt some foul play. Would the night were come!                           I have found The very cause of Hamlet's lunacy.                           For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak...                           –––the play's the thing Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.                           Get thee to a nunn’ry…                           Thus conscience does make cowards of us all…                           Her liberty is full of threats to all…                           To hell, allegiance!                           You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you.                           I know not “seems.”                           I like her not, nor stands it safe with us To let her madness range.                           Suit the action to the word, the word to the action…                           Let me be cruel, not unnatural…                           What should such women as I do crawling between earth and heaven?                           We are arrant knaves, believe none of us.                           –––the rest is silence.                           Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't.                           I am thy father's spirit, Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night.                           May one be pardon’d and retain th’ offense?                           The lady doth protest too much, methinks.                           Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death The memory be green…                           To be, or not to be, that is the question:                           –––the readiness is all.                           O, horrible, O, horrible, most horrible!                           Not so, my lord, I am too much in the sun.                           O that this too too solid flesh would melt…                                                    ...'tis an unweeded garden That grows to seed…                           ...Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!                           But I have that within which passes show, These but the trappings and the suits of woe.                           ...Thought and afflictions, passion, hell itself, She turns to favor and to prettiness.                           ––the King, the King's to blame.                           But you must know your father lost a father, That father lost, lost his…                           ...Thou com'st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee.                           'Tis in my memory lock’d, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.                           Ay me, what act, That roars so loud and thunders in the index?                           ...Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.                           O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!                           She rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound As it did seem to shatter all her bulk And end her being.                           ...…for yourself, sir, shall grow old as I am, if like a crab you could go backward.                           Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off, And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.                           Denmark's a prison.                           ...O, most wicked speed: to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets…                           In the secret parts of Fortune? O, most true, she is a strumpet.                           She hath, my lord, of late made many tenders Of her affection to me.                           ...Know the serpent that did sting thy father’s life Now wears his crown.                           A dream itself is but a shadow.                           … think of us As of a father, for let the world take note You are the most immediate to our throne…                           ...Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.                           We defy augury.                           ...since brevity is the soul of wit... ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? Good night, sweet princess, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio… Imperious Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. Let me not think on't! Frailty, thy name is woman! My father's spirit––in arms! All is not well, I doubt some foul play. Would the night were come! I have found The very cause of Hamlet's lunacy. For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak... –––the play's the thing Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King. Get thee to a nunn’ry… Thus conscience does make cowards of us all… Her liberty is full of threats to all… To hell, allegiance! You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you. I know not “seems.” I like her not, nor stands it safe with us To let her madness range. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action… Let me be cruel, not unnatural… What should such women as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves, believe none of us. –––the rest is silence. Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't. I am thy father's spirit, Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night. May one be pardon’d and retain th’ offense? The lady doth protest too much, methinks. Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death The memory be green… To be, or not to be, that is the question: –––the readiness is all. O, horrible, O, horrible, most horrible! Not so, my lord, I am too much in the sun. O that this too too solid flesh would melt… ...'tis an unweeded garden That grows to seed… ...Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! But I have that within which passes show, These but the trappings and the suits of woe. ...Thought and afflictions, passion, hell itself, She turns to favor and to prettiness. ––the King, the King's to blame. But you must know your father lost a father, That father lost, lost his… ...Thou com'st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee. 'Tis in my memory lock’d, And you yourself shall keep the key of it. Ay me, what act, That roars so loud and thunders in the index? ...Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes. O day and night, but this is wondrous strange! She rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound As it did seem to shatter all her bulk And end her being. ...…for yourself, sir, shall grow old as I am, if like a crab you could go backward. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off, And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. Denmark's a prison. ...O, most wicked speed: to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets… In the secret parts of Fortune? O, most true, she is a strumpet. She hath, my lord, of late made many tenders Of her affection to me. ...Know the serpent that did sting thy father’s life Now wears his crown. A dream itself is but a shadow. … think of us As of a father, for let the world take note You are the most immediate to our throne… ...Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. We defy augury. ...since brevity is the soul of wit...


Now Playing!

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HAMLET


Nov. 30th - Dec. 17th 2011


The Plaza Black Box Theatre at the Boston Center for the Arts

For tickets:
Call: BostonTheatreScene.com Box Office at 617-933-8600
By web at: BostonTheatreScene.com
In person at: Calderwood Pavilion, 527 Tremont Street or BU Theatre, 264 Huntington Ave in Boston



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