Doth it not show vilely in me to desire small beer?

"Belike then my appetite was not princely got, for, by my

troth, I do now remember the poor creature small beer."

Shakespeare and beer are two of my most pleasurable passions. And as Hamlet says, "Oh, ’tis most sweet, When in one line two crafts directly meet." Fortunately for me, the Bard was steeped in the everyday activities and traditions of merry old England, and pub potables was one of the most prominent subjects in many of his plays. As I've come to know from deep research (i.e. personal experience in pubs), imbibing remains an essential and obligatory part of British life. Here in America, beer has enjoyed a renaissance in the last decade. Craft brews are the bee's knees, and I'm just thankful that Florida is proving a haven for such fermented artistry. 

In Shakespeare's day, ale and wine were the few beverages that were safe to consume, and it's safe to say that it wasn't as tasty as that nice IPA or hefeweizen available at an ABC Liquors. Prince Hal's "small beer" was likely a watery ale of low alcohol percentage, just enough to kill the bugs that would be in well water. It was generally made with the second or third runnings of a stronger beer's mash, such as that of a barleywine (oh boy, now THAT stuff will put hair on your chest). 

Now Falstaff's poison of choice was "sack," which is cousin to the small beer in the quality department. The sack he had access to was low-grade wine that was relatively infection-free, but tasted questionable enough that one would need to add flavor enhancements. Sir John famously says in 1 Henry IV, "If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked." Sack was a fortified wine, like a sherry, and was already very sweet, so imagine how indulgent sack and sugar must've been. In The Merry Wives Of Windsor, Falstaff demands, "Go fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in't." This request hints at the origin of "toasting" with wine: the Romans would add to their pitchers some burnt toast, whose charcoal would reduce the acidity and unpalatable flavours of slightly off vino they were used to drinking. 

Now I'm craving something far more tasty and refined to pour into my pint glasses I recently picked up at the Guinness brewery, so I'll let you go with these classic quotations. SLÁINTE/CHEERS!

“Come, come; good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well us’d…”

Iago, “Othello,” Act II, Sc. III

“Would I were in an alehouse in London, I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.”

Boy, “King Henry V,” Act III, Sc. II

“We’ll teach you to drink deep, ere you depart.”

Hamlet, “Hamlet,” Act I, Sc.II

“Come, thou monarch of the wine,

Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne!

In thy fats our cares be drow’d,

With thy grapes our hairs be crown’d!

Cup us till the world go round,

Cup us till the world go round!”

Enobarbus, “Antony & Cleopatra,” Act II, Sc. VII

“Doth it not show vilely in me to desire small beer?”

Prince Hal, “King Henry IV, part Two,” Act II, Sc. II

“… and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things… 
nose-painting, sleep, and urine.
Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes; it provokes 
the desire, but it takes away the performance." 

Porter, “Macbeth,” Act II, Sc. III

“With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls

Than our priest-like fasts…”

Menenius, “Coriolanus,” Act V, Sc. I

“For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.”

Autolycus, “The Winter’s Tale,” Act IV, Sc. III

“Drink a good hearty draught, it breeds good blood, man.”

Arcite, “The Two Noble Kinsmen,” Act III, Sc. III

One foot in sea and one on shore

                            "Sigh No More" as a modern pop song

It's all Shakespeare and all romance this week in my special edition commemorative post. I've returned from my multi-flight overseas journeys a changed woman, and Shakespeare had a fairly specific influence on events.

First off, I got my ass to a screening of Joss Whedon's pet project Much Ado About Nothing while I was Manhattan. It was the eve before the heat wave, and we headed to the cool Landmark Sunshine Cinema in the Lower East Side. My friends who tagged along aren't Shakespeare types, but they know me, and stuck with me, knowing molecular mixology would ensue as the evening pressed on.

Of course, I enjoyed the film overall. It was, if nothing else, a bold and creative take on the classic play. The casting was great. The Beatrice and Benedick were the heart of the story, but I found the Hero and Claudio had a slightly more engaging presence than those in Sir Ken's film version. The highlight was Nathan Fillion as Dogberry, who, having admitted to no Shakespeare experience, floated along perfectly using all his comedic skill and proved a treat to watch on screen.

I really loved the treatment of the songs in the film. Joss produced a very charming jazzy rendition of "Sigh No More" that tweaks the heart and makes you wish you had a light summery cocktail in your hand.

I'm still not sure if the choice to film in black and white helped or hindered the atmosphere of the film. It certainly gave a classy sheen to the imagery, but the modern Los Angeles setting (at Joss' home, no less) was too obvious to lend any actual sense of timelessness we like to associate with Shakespeare.

While all the actors definitely understood their lines (which is more than can be said about even one of my personal favorite Branagh films, Love's Labour's Lost), the language still felt out of time and place. That probably has more to do with the delivery than the present-day setting. All the actors were essentially shoehorning grand, flowery soliloquies and dialogues into casual, everyday cocktail-hour conversations. The acting was naturalistic, and to a fault. This film made me realize that without a certain level of pure theatricality, Shakespeare feels forced--in this case, constrained by the not-so-epic dramas of normal human beings.

This is where I both respect and disdain Joss' vision: he clearly adores the material and wants to show us that Shakespeare is relevant and current in its themes and characters, but I think it's more difficult to "modernize" comedies than most of the tragedies and histories. With something like Coriolanus or Henry V, you could easily set them in present-day war-room situations involving the already elevated theatricality of politics and issues of state and the language and reactions to events wouldn't feel too overdone. That's what politicians do anyway, so it feels truly naturalistic.

The slapstick comedies almost always feature contrivances that would never prove believable obstacles and salient plot points today. For example, in Joss' film, the idea that Claudio would mistake the maid in Hero's window for Hero herself is completely cancelled out by the fact that we were previously shown that there are security cameras all over the household. No way a modern Claudio would fall for such a transparent ploy as Don John's. If the scene didn't have such an enormous influence on the remainder of the story, it may have been easier to ignore.

In the end, there are more moments in Joss' Much Ado that entertain and seduce than there are ones that remind us of the fragility of suspended disbelief. It is definitely a pleasure for fans of Shakespeare and romance and I recommend such folks give it a go.

On that note, I would like to make a personal announcement :)

Of all the unforgettable experiences I had in the UK and Ireland with my dear friends this time around, the most unexpected (and I shall say Shakespearean) was meeting Jamie, my new favorite person in existence. In the heady midst of my first "pub crawl" with new friends in downtown Newcastle, some of the first words exchanged between us was a general SQUEE about Shakespeare. It took me 30 years and a spanning of the Atlantic Ocean to finally fall in love. Our first real date involved recitations of Hamlet and Richard III to each other, and in the back of my head, I kept thinking of Benedick and Beatrice.

I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants

of wit broken on me because I have railed so long against

marriage, but doth not the appetite alter? 

What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?

Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much?

Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adieu!

No glory lives behind the back of such.

And Benedick, love on; I will requite thee,

Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand.

Shakespeare is extremely relevant to us. It's one of many (super geeky) things that bonds me and my beau across the sea that sunders us from physical proximity, and enriches the way we experience our far-flung romance. As Helena says in "All's Well That Ends Well:"

The mightiest space in fortune nature brings
To join like likes, and kiss like native things.

Full of sound and fury

Macbeth hath murdered my sleep

Newcastle. Evening. Tyneside Cinema.
The tiny lobby is packed with folks of all ages, all politely awaiting the cue to queue into the theatre for the sold-out broadcast. When the time comes, my friends and I file past the signs for upcoming films ("The World's End is playing in the UK already? We have to go see it next week!") and find our seats in the front row. Refreshments are being sold in the theatre proper--pop and beer and "cinema-sized" ice creams. I get a Blue Moon and have a seat.

The room is packed, but far more calm than I would expect from a similar screening back in the states. The program is filled with future Shakespearean fare: a modern-day interpretation of Othello, Tom Hiddleston as Coriolanus, encore screenings of Rory Kinnear's Hamlet. I sip my beer and settle in.

An NT representative lady appears on the screen and says it's ok to clap after the showing, because even though the stage actors in Manchester cannot hear us, they can feel the spirit of our appreciation. This gets a laugh from most of the audience behind me, which I find strange; back home, I've seen several plain old film screenings like The Avengers or The Hobbit where people would clap prompted by nothing more than their profound enjoyment.

After the lady interviews the co-director, Rob Ashford, and he fawns over Sir Ken's prowess, the production begins. There are unseen cameras positioned everywhere in the deconsecrated church where the play is housed--it seems as many as you tend to see floating and angling around stadiums during major American football games on ESPN. It affords a very intimate and satisfying view of all the proceedings.

The weird sisters appear, and a rainy, muddy battle begins. All the scenes play out in the slippery grime, staining clothes and shoes and robbing the actors of perfectly graceful strides. The mud enhances the visceral, earthy feel of Macbeth, showcasing the truly ancient and pagan nature of this play's dark and violent themes.

Sir Ken's Macbeth is clearly good-hearted and humble at the start. He and Banquo are genuinely startled by the sister's prophecies. When Alex Kingston's Lady Macbeth reads her husband's letter, she is joyous and enthusiastic on every level, and the dark starts to creep in. After seeing Macbeth in battle, and seeing his wife declare her ambitions, you eagerly anticipate the moment he reappears and they embrace for the first time. The reunion scene is crackling with sexual tension.

The scenes fly by quickly, with no pause between them whatsoever. The overall feeling of the production is one of the "vaulting ambition" o'erleaping itself, but it never falters and falls. It sprints forward, and while you feel Macbeth's sense of being rushed, you as the onlooker can still keep up just fine. The soliloquies that are traditionally slowed so the audience can rubberneck would be almost glossed over if it weren't for the gravitas the actors give them.

The following scenes struck me the most:

1) When Macbeth sees the dagger before him, at first, it is simply light from the cross-shaped window falling on the ground, stretched and distorted by its sharp angle, throwing a giant bright sword on the mud.
2) After Macbeth is crowned, he presents himself as confident and regal, and sends Banquo off with all the friendliness their relationship deserves. But as soon as everyone leaves the stage but Macbeth, he goes through his "barren sceptre" speech with paranoia and urgency, then curls up in the throne under his cape, childlike and fearful.
3) In the sleepwalking scene, Alex Kingston appears to be channelling the weird sisters in flashes and starts, lending an especially disturbing supernatural possession to her condition.
4) Macduff's "All my pretty chickens" scene is heartbreakingly delivered by Ray Fearon, with an intensity that approaches, if not equals, even Sir Ken's performance.
5) Macbeth's "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" speech always seems to read with a catatonic shock, and I've seen some movies and clips where it's delivered with a steady low affect and monotone voice. Sir Ken begins it that way, but halfway through, he breaks down entirely, weeping and dripping with tears and snot. He is barely able to finish the last line with any kind of audible voice, and you completely believe that he's still a good man deep inside, simply and tragically grieving for his beloved wife.

Some other fascinating points include:

1) The weird sisters appear even when they have no lines or don't normally show up in a scene, and their presence imparts the not-so-weird idea that they have a lot more control of the entire drama than expected.
2) The same actor who plays Duncan later plays Seyton, Macbeth's assistant/military officer.
3) The "cauldron" that Macbeth sees when he revisits the sisters is made up of actors on the ground, shaking a giant round sheet, out of which the sons of Banquo emerge and walk past Macbeth in zombie-like fashion.
4) Alex Vlahos, who deftly plays Malcolm, was the same actor who played Mordred on the BBC's series Merlin. It was fun to see him pop up!
5) Patrick Doyle's score, as usual, sneaks in and heightens the mood of every scene with that skillful subtlety that you barely know the music is there. Awesome.

In the end, you get a very highly anticipated Macbeth/Macduff battle. When Macduff reveals the truth about his birth, Macbeth visibly loses his shit, and musters all the remaining energy he has toward going down with a fight.

Clocking in at just over two hours, this Macbeth was a whirlwind of solidly magnetic characters and fierce action. The eerie setting as well as several intriguing individual performance choices at key moments made the play feel as fresh as if it were written yesterday... as it should be with Shakespeare. It should never feel static and dry, which is something that even Joss Whedon's lovingly re-imagined Much Ado About Nothing suffered from at times. More on that next week, though.

If you get the chance to see an encore screening of Macbeth (or if this NT Live production gets released on DVD) definitely treat yourself to some high quality Shakespeare!

His virtues will plead like angels

Sir Kenneth Branagh in the current Manchester stage production of Macbeth

Every summer, I split town/state/country for a couple weeks so I can take a break from my beloved Floridian monsoon season and from my own brain. For the last three years, I've been working on three scifi novels, the bulk of which is written in a creative frenzy during the eight weeks of summer vacation my school job affords me. It's a beautiful thing. But it can make you go a little nutter after a while.

This year, I'm heading back to Brooklyn to be warmed in the bosom of my friends and the wonders of New York City. The last time I was there, I experienced Sleep No More--NYC's ongoing interactive performance of Macbeth. I mentioned it before, but it bears reassurance that it is one of the MOST THRILLING WAYS TO ENCOUNTER SHAKESPEARE EVER. I spent the entire evening running around in a dark, creepy hotel with my dear friend and a bunch of athletic actors silently portraying the physicality of deep dark human emotions associated with The Scottish Play. Seriously, it was worth every cent of the $100+ I spent. We audience members had to wear masks and we could not speak the entire three hours. We were free to wander the floors and throng behind Lady Macbeth to her bathtub or help the witches put their clothes back on. There was blood and gore and moving trees and dancing and cocktails. Unforgettable.

Last summer was also my personal Shakespeare revival of sorts. I was close to my goal of reading every word of Shakespeare at the time, and I was primed for finally tasting the fruits of Sir Kenneth Branagh's films. I caught up very quickly and soon realized that he was the perfect object for my fangirlish predilections. It was love at first soliloquy.

This summer, having polished my Shakespeare/Branagh appreciation to a glistening shine, I am hyper keen for my second trip back to the UK. Last month, in between Skype sessions with my Newcastle friends to plan our jaunt to Dublin, National Theatre Live made a very exciting announcement. On July 20th, they would broadcast Manchester International Festival's highly anticipated stage production of Macbeth throughout the UK. It stars Sir Ken and Alex Kingston (from Doctor Who!). Its Branagh's first Shakespearean role in ten years.

I thought to myself, OMG I will be in the UK on July 20th. 

My brain/ovaries proceeded to explode. The weird sisters themselves couldn't have predicted a more fortuitous situation.

Not too long after the announcement, tickets went on sale at midnight UK time, which was only 7 pm my time, so I was awake and ready to grab front-row seats at the Tyneside Cinema. 

So, just days from catching my flight out of my world and my mind, I have decided to take up this famous speech in honor of Macbeth, the Bard, Sir Ken, and my most loyal and understanding friends who have gamely indulged my nerdiest desires. Macbeth, two ways, two cities, two intense interpretaions. Excuse my *SQUEEEE*

Analysis and ruminations will have to wait until after I return from my voyages. See y'all in a few weeks!

Macbeth, Act I, Sc. VII
Macbeth: If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: if the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases
We still have judgment here; that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice
To our own lips. He's here in double trust;
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,
Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,
Who should against his murderer shut the door,
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking-off;
And pity, like a naked new-born babe,
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls on the other.

His whole function suiting With forms to his conceit

Olivier slips into his antic disposition

I've long stood in the "Hamlet Ain't Cray-Cray" camp. Sure, he's an emo hipster at the start of the play, genuinely depressed about his father's death and his mother's o'er hasty, incestuous marriage. But when he meets the Ghost--the moment on which Hamlet's entire psyche hinges--he is not made mad with fear or anger or vengeful thoughts. Yes, he's filled with all these things, but it doesn't drive him mad.

Some people argue that the Ghost scene is enough evidence that Hamlet's already off his nut, but Horatio and Marcellus have confessed to have seen the Ghost as well, and they seem otherwise mentally stable in every way. The Ghost only really speaks to Hamlet, if you don't count the "swear" here and there when Horatio and Marcellus return to the stage to enact their oath to the Prince. Though overwhelmed with this vision and the information imparted about "murder most foul," Hamlet believes the Ghost in the moment, but even then begins to hatch a plan to confirm the Ghost's story. He commands his friends that they not give away the game of his feigned outward appearance and action--his "antic disposition"--no matter how "strange or odd soe'er I bear myself."

Next, Hamlet wordlessly freaks out Ophelia, successfully making Polonius believe he has gone mad with love. Claudius and Gertrude call up Hamlet's old flunkies to find him out, and then Polonius suggests how they might confirm his theory that Hamlet is lovesick for his daughter. When the players arrive, Hamlet is outwardly, eccentrically pleased with himself. No one is the wiser about what's truly sparking inside Hamlet's brain.

Now here's what I learned from memorizing the "O, what a rogue" soliloquy, and why it confirms my belief that Hamlet is not totes bananas. It tellingly begins with "Now I am alone." It's important enough that he announces it: "Now I am alone." He's been so busy putting on his "madness" mask for everyone that he's exhausted and feels he must speak with himself. His duplicity of character begins to appear in this speech, as he mentally breaks his own pate across for not having the courage to express his truest feelings to the world. He's jealous of the players for their masks, and how they can conjure up tears for a conceit, when he cannot weep for a truth. During this diatribe, it is clear that Hamlet is very hard on himself, for it was just the night before that he saw the Ghost, but he soon reveals his cunning plan to the audience. "The play's the thing," he states, "wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King."

At the end of this soliloquy, Hamlet is resolved to "observe [the King's] looks" and "tent him to the quick." He notes that the Ghost may be lying, that he "may be a dev'l, and the dev'l hath power T'assume a pleasing shape." Hamlet's ready for action. He's rationally, scientifically devising a way to test the Ghost's claims before he will allow himself to carry out a rash act of vengeance. This is Spock-like behavior. It may have more the Shantner-esque flourish, but it's Vulcan logic all the way.

But still, many believe that only half a scene later, he's preparing himself for suicide. WHY? Because he comes back onto the stage and recites "To be or not to be."

Respectfully, WTF.

If one forgets that the last soliloquy ever happened, only half a scene before, then one could interpret "To be or not to be" as a pure contemplation on suicide and its consequences. Many people believe this soliloquy is a true representation of Hamlet's character, and that when he sees Ophelia, he is pushed over the edge and gives into his madness.

I call bullshit on this.

Hamlet is a bit paranoid at this point--as his "Now I am alone" line can attest--but not without reason. He is well aware that R & G are spying on him. He suspects the King and Queen suspect he is mad. He knows Ophelia has been scared out of her knickers and that that's why Polonius has been pretending to be Sherlock Holmes.

In Act III, Sc. I, just before Hamlet arrives to enact his famous speech, Claudius says he has "closely sent for Hamlet hither," telling us that Hamlet has been summoned. Hamlet must suspect that someone will be waiting for him. He was never just walking around the castle idly voicing his thoughts. When he enters, he has this fabulous speech prepared, just in case someone is listening. And someone is listening--Claudius and Polonius are there, "seeing unseen" so they may judge what is bothering Hamlet.

Hamlet's no dumbass. He would never discuss his deepest thoughts out loud unless he were sure he were alone. "To be" fits his antic disposition, and could very easily throw off his pursuers. They would never guess from those existential thoughts that he suspects the King has been murdered and that he wishes to indict Claudius.

When Ophelia steps out, Hamlet is momentarily buoyed by her presence, and, for a tiny moment, almost allows her to distract him. But he keeps stepping forward on his balance beam of lies, keeping up his pretense that he is mad over love for Ophelia. "Ha, ha! Are you honest?" he asks, already suspecting her complicity in a trap. "Where's your father?" he asks, giving her one more chance to reveal her true intentions to him. He wants her to be on his side, but as soon as she says "At home, my lord," he knows her alliance is with Polonius, and he is truly heartbroken at that point. He goes a bit mad--for real-- and it feeds into the original lie of his madness, at least as far as Polonius is concerned. Hamlet walks away from this scene more upset than before, and Claudius actually begins to believe that this is not true madness.

But Hamlet is still one step ahead of everyone. If Hamlet were mad, he never would have been able to keep his secret of the Ghost's tale. If the Ghost were lying, Claudius wouldn't have confessed to any murderous actions and guilt for killing his own brother. If Hamlet were suicidal, he would just mope around, unable to rouse himself into the man of action he truly is. And if anyone wants to argue otherwise on that point, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me.

Now I am alone

Well, I tested myself yesterday with all my speeches and I'm happy to report I knew every one with minimal to no prompting; a definite improvement from the last time I quizzed myself. I promise to keep reciting them everyday, but before that, I shall embark upon a new speech this week. It's been a long while since I've memorized something from scratch.

The decision was a no-brainer. I want to complete my set of the four major Hamlet soliloquies. There are other, less prominent ones, but if you want a cross section of Hamlet's psyche throughout the play, the big four will provide you with it. Weighing in at ~55 lines (depending on your edition of the play), the Act II, Scene II speech is the longest of his soliloquies, but no where near as long as the one with which Richard Gloucester has blessed me.

It has been nearly a year since I turned my well-honed fangirling instrument toward Sir Kenneth Branagh. I started with realizing that Thor was directed by him, then moved on to seeing the screen graced with his countenance and voice through King Henry V and Much Ado About Nothing and finally, the movie that changed my life, his complete and epic 4-hour masterpiece of Hamlet. On July 10th, not halfway through my first viewing of that glorious film, I clearly recall my heart o'erflowing with love and inspiration. So of course, to cap off my unlocked achievements, I shall embark upon this emotional thrill ride of a speech. It still makes me melt and my ovaries quiver to hear it.

A week from now, I hope to have some more insight into what it's like to occupy and live through these enthralling words.


Hamlet, Act II, Sc. II
Hamlet: 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 wann'd,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect,
A broken voice, an' 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 appal 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 damn'd 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' the 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-liver'd 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 murder'd,
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 scullion!
Fie upon't! foh! About, my brain! 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 proclaim'd 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 but blench,
I know my course. The spirit that I have seen
May be the devil: and the devil hath power
To 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.