unpregnant

Ay , so , good-bye to you .

Now I am alone .
O , what a rogue and peasant slave am I !
Is it not monstrous that this player here ,
But in a fiction , in a dream of passion ,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That from her working all his visage wanned ,
Tears in his eyes , distraction in his aspect ,
A broken voice , and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit — and all for nothing !
For Hecuba !
What’s Hecuba to him , or he to Hecuba ,
That he should weep for her ? What would he do
Had he the motive and the cue for passion
That I have ? He would drown the stage with tears
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech ,
Make mad the guilty and appall the free ,
Confound the ignorant and amaze indeed
The very faculties of eyes and ears . Yet I ,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal , peak
Like John-a-dreams , unpregnant of my cause ,
And can say nothing — no , not for a king
Upon whose property and most dear life
A damned defeat was made . Am I a coward ?
Who calls me villain ? breaks my pate across ?
Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face ?
Tweaks me by the nose ? gives me the lie i’ th’ throat
As deep as to the lungs ? Who does me this ?
Ha ! ’Swounds , I should take it ! For it cannot be
But I am pigeon-livered and lack gall
To make oppression bitter , or ere this
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave’s offal . Bloody , bawdy villain !
Remorseless , treacherous , lecherous , kindless
villain !
O vengeance !
Why , what an ass am I ! This is most brave ,
That I , the son of a dear father murdered ,
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell ,
Must , like a whore , unpack my heart with words
And fall a-cursing like a very drab ,
A stallion scullion ! Fie upon ’t ! Foh !
About , my brains ! — Hum , I have heard
That guilty creatures sitting at a play
Have , by the very cunning of the scene ,
Been struck so to the soul that presently
They have proclaimed their malefactions ; .
For murder , though it have no tongue , will speak
With most miraculous organ . I’ll have these players
Play something like the murder of my father
Before mine uncle . I’ll observe his looks ;
I’ll tent him to the quick . If he do blench ,
I know my course . The spirit that I have seen
May be a devil , and the devil hath power
T’ assume a pleasing shape ; yea , and perhaps ,
Out of my weakness and my melancholy ,
As he is very potent with such spirits ,
Abuses me to damn me . I’ll have grounds
More relative than this . The play’s the thing
Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King .

Good night .
This deed unshapes me quite , makes me unpregnant
And dull to all proceedings . A deflowered maid ,
And by an eminent body that enforced
The law against it . But that her tender shame
Will not proclaim against her maiden loss ,
How might she tongue me ! Yet reason dares her no ,
For my authority bears of a credent bulk
That no particular scandal once can touch
But it confounds the breather . He should have lived ,
Save that his riotous youth with dangerous sense
Might in the times to come have ta’en revenge
By so receiving a dishonored life
With ransom of such shame . Would yet he had lived .
Alack , when once our grace we have forgot ,
Nothing goes right . We would , and we would not .