revenge his murder gave him
no rest till it was accomplished. Every hour of delay seemed to him a
sin, and a violation of his father's commands. Yet how to compass the
death of the king, surrounded as he constantly was with his guards, was
no easy matter. Or if it had been, the presence of the queen, Hamlet's
mother, who was generally with the king, was a restraint upon his
purpose, which he could not break through. Besides, the very
circumstance that the usurper was his mother's husband filled him with
some remorse, and still blunted the edge of his purpose. The mere act
of putting a fellow-creature to death was in itself odious and terrible
to a disposition naturally so gentle as Hamlet's was. His very
melancholy, and the dejection of spirits he had so long been in,
produced an irresoluteness and wavering of purpose which kept him from
proceeding to extremities. Moreover, he could not help having some
scruples upon his mind, whether the spirit which he had seen was indeed
his father, or whether it might not be the devil, who he had heard has
power to take any form he pleases, and who might have assumed his
father's shape only to take advantage of his weakness and his
melancholy, to drive him to the doing of so desperate an act as murder.
And he determined that he would have more certain grounds to go upon
than a vision, or apparition, which might be a delusion.

While he was in this irresolute mind there came to the court certain
players, in whom Hamlet formerly used to take delight, and particularly
to hear one of them speak a tragical speech, describing the death of
old Priam, King of Troy, with the grief of Hecuba his queen. Hamlet
welcomed his old friends, the players, and remembering how that speech
had formerly given him pleasure, requested the player to repeat it;
which he did in so lively a manner, setting forth the cruel murder of
the feeble old king, with the destruction of his people and city by
fire, and the mad grief of the old queen, running barefoot up and down
the palace, with a poor clout upon that head where a crown had been,
and with nothing but a blanket upon her loins, snatched up in haste,
where she had worn a royal robe; that not only it drew tears from all
that stood by, who thought they saw the real scene, so lively was it
represented, but even the player himself delivered it with a broken
voice and real tears. This put Hamlet upon thinking, if that player
could so work himself up to passion