Once again I am throwing myself at the mercy of Shakespeare and his actors. Susan and Jeffrey. Last time it was Bishop Carlisle. This time it is Claudius from Hamlet. You remember? He's Hamlet's uncle/father. Oh, it gets sticky right quick in this play. In this scene, Claudius, who is the King after murdering his brother and marrying his sister-in-law, realizes that Hamlet knows of his evil deed. Things have come home to roost.
Oh my offence is ranke, it smels to heauen,It's just a bit of fluff for the summer. I found the last class so helpful in regards to Biblical text study (and spending time with my wife as she takes these classes as well) that I thought I would take another one. Posted by tripp at June 28, 2008 08:29 AM
It hath the primall eldest curse vpon't,
A Brothers murther. Pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharpe as will:
My stronger guilt, defeats my strong intent,
And like a man to double businesse bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And both neglect, what if this curséd hand
Were thicker then it selfe with Brothers blood?
Is there not Raine enough in the sweet Heauens
To wash it white as Snow? Whereto serues Mercy,
But to confront the visage of Offence?
And what's in Prayer, but this two-fold force,
To be fore-stalléd ere we come to fall,
Or pardon'd being downe? Then Ile looke vp.
My fault is past. But oh, what forme of Prayer
Can serue my turne? Forgiue me my foule Murther?
That cannot be, since I am still possest
Of those effects for which I did the Murther:
My Crowne, mine owne Ambition, and my Queene.
May one be pardon'd, and retaine th' offence?
In the corrupted currants of this world,
Offences gilded hand may shoue by Iustice,
And oft 'tis seene, the wicked prize it selfe
Buyes out the Law; but 'tis not so aboue,
There is no shuffling, there the Action lyes
In his true Nature, and we our selues compell'd
Euen to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To giue in euidence. What then? What rests?
Try what Repentance can. What can it not?
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?
Oh wretched state! Oh bosome, blacke as death!
Oh liméd soule, that strugling to be free,
Art more ingag'd: Helpe Angels, make assay:
Bow stubborne knees, and heart with strings of Steele,
Be soft as sinewes of the new-borne Babe.
All may be well.