he shall with speed to England For the demand of our neglected tribute.

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Here’s a funny bit of business. England owes Denmark tribute in this world? Is this a hangover from the days when the brutal Danes rampaged the land? What, exactly, is this tribute? It’s not like Greek mythological tribute is it? Seven youths on a ship to be fed to the minotaur sort of tribute? Probably it’s money or, like, jewels.
But it’s an interesting background politically for this play. The king is using this tribute as an excuse to send Hamlet away but underneath, he’s using that same obligation of tribute, perhaps to get England to do his bidding to kill Hamlet.
England owes Denmark tribute.
Norway has agreed to peace years ago.
There’s a sense of volatility to the political landscape. Was this still true as Shakespeare was writing this? Did England owe Denmark something at this point?

It’s funny, though, to send someone you think is going to explode with melancholic danger to go do a diplomatic mission. It’s a funny excuse. And you know, it makes perfect sense on a villainous level – get the dangerous guy out of there, the one who might threaten your empire and get him out of your hair once and for all.
But politically, I wouldn’t think it sounds great to send a madman to do your diplomacy.
Maybe, though, there’s no real need to justify this to anyone. Maybe Polonius is in on it. Maybe Polonius just does whatever his king asks him. Maybe Polonius would never question a diplomatic judgment.

This tribute, though, is news to me. And I’ve read this play dozens of times. It’s such fun to learn new things in new lines.

Which for to prevent, I have in quick determination Thus set it down:

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Has he literally set it down? Does Claudius have a pad of Royal writs on his person at all times, ready to be proclaimed?
I picture it like one of those pink secretarial “While you were out. . .” pads and he checks off a little box that reads “to England” and another that reads “to prevent danger.”
Does he have a royal quill and parchment all rolled up in his robe just in case he needs to set something down? Or maybe he brought some work to do behind the arras while they listened and waited?
Maybe Claudius is always multi-tasking – doing the business while listening and so on.

There’s something in his soulO’er which his melancholy sits on brood,And I do doubt the hatch and the discloseWill be some danger;

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Sometimes I do wonder what he’ll do with all the frustrations and darkness he presses down. Watching him swallow indignities and disappointments like poison berries, bowls of them, one right after the other, I can’t help but wonder when they will start to do their work. The best option might be that they’d come back up in a violent purge of bitterness. I suppose it’s possible that his system will purify them out and leave him unscathed. Maybe his liver is stronger than most and he’s able to take out all the poison, causing no long term effects. But poison is unpredictable and I mostly wish he didn’t have to eat quite so much of it. 

Nor what he spake, though it lacked form a little, Was not like madness.

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It is funny that Hamlet drops the madness act for this scene. There are so many reasons to think that this scene and the speech that precedes it (at least in this version, see also the “bad quarto”) are both for show, that he’s doing them for the audience of Claudius and or Polonius, whomever he thinks might be spying.
And yet – this line leads rather clearly in the other direction. That is, if Hamlet is putting on the madness for the benefit of Polonius and/or Claudius, why does he drop it for this section? The only option would be that he doesn’t know they’re watching. Except. . .

Hamlet does some crazy stuff in this scene but it’s not so much like madness as the madness Ophelia describes to Polonius. It is not like madness – even if it does lack form a little.

Or, is Hamlet attempting to do his mad act and failing to convince Claudius? Possibly.

His affections do not that way tend;

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They are undoubtedly affections. He is the most affectionate partner I have ever had. He curls around me like a coat sometimes, intertwines legs and arms and neck and all making us like a singular creature with two heads and hearts and so many limbs. For me, he will do things he was never done before. He will make cards, learn painting techniques, construct works of art meant only for me. All of it full up with affection, a water jug so full it sloshes over the side at times.
He does not say he loves me. Not with any ease. He’s not likely to holler my name in a rainstorm. He’s much too practical for that. He will never write me a poem, never use flattering language. I am mostly “nice.” He’s not likely to tell me I’m beautiful or sing songs in my praise. He will never show up at my door one day, having run all the way there. He’d never make the plane if we were in a romantic comedy.
But then, romantic comedies usually end before the relationship begins.

Love?

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So very different than what I thought it would be. I thought it was all thunderstorms and drama. It was the love-ing-est in the middle of pouring rain, with thunder and lightning. It was all longing and yearning. It was passionate words and passionate kisses. That those things were not often forthcoming didn’t make them any less true. 
But then there was kindness and tenderness and there was quiet devotion, there were bags carried, meals made, laundry done. There was comforting and comfort. There were arms wrapped around one another in a cocoon that protected us against the slings and arrows of the world. There was team work. There was support, back and forth.

And I never imagined any of it. The things I imagined, well, they’d never end up like this. Love? It’s not what I expected. And better. And not. And better.

O, woe is meT’have seen what I have seen, see what I see!

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T’have seen what I have seen, see what I see!
Today, one man breaking up with a woman in an unpleasant fashion doesn’t seem the worst of things. I know it feels like the end of the world when it’s happening. I’d be woe-ing it up if it happened to me today – but of all the things one could see. . . it’s a little on the lighter side.
I mean, just in the last week – a man went on a shooting spree, killing everyone in his path. Two hundred Nigerian girls have been kidnapped and disappeared into the dark reaches of trees. Hangings, stonings, war, torturing, all wretched beyond comprehension.

It never does to play the comparison game – the my heartache is bigger than yours thing never pays.

But today I can’t help but think of all the other people who could be saying a line like this. Witnesses to murders, victims of rape, all of us loaded up with the abundance of awful images and stories from the news, filling up buckets of woe. 

And I, of ladies, most deject and wretched, That sucked the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason Like sweet bells jangled, out of time and harsh, That unmatched form and feature of blown youth Blasted with ecstasy.

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I’m copying down these words, as I do when I’m writing these little bits of whatever they are. And as I’m copying them, I’m sort of nodding along, going, “yeah, yeah, this line’s so good,” singing along to it. Its music is so familiar to me. I can almost hear the Ophelias I’ve known speaking the text.

I’m tapping along to the ladies most deject and wretched, humming to the honey of his music vows (so sexy this line and exactly what love language feels like) and I’m jammin’ on the old tune – the noble and most sovereign reason like sweet bells jangled –
And then suddenly the needle on this familiar record scratches.
Because I know this line, I could sing along to it and I know it as “Sweet bells jangled out of tune” No comma. Out of tune, not time. What?!
Now, “out of time and harsh” makes a great deal of sense and I see why an editor would make that choice – but because this is a song I could only sing along with when its playing, not one I could conjure unaccompanied, I’m not sure where the speech in my memory went after the jangled sweet bells. Is the speech always like this? Did I simply learn it wrong? Hear it wrong? Or is this an editorial leap? A particularly radical new reading of this line? Have I misremembered this line? Is it one of those that is always misquoted? The way people think “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio.” is “O Yorick, I knew him well.” Or the way they think “Lay on, Macduff.” is “Lead on, Macduff.”
And it’s funny that this happens on this sweet bells bit – because the effect of it is a bit like a melody, either out of tune or out of time, depending on how you see it.

The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword, Th’expectancy and rose of the fair state,The glass of fashion and the mould of form,Th’observed of all observers, quite, quite down!

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It is pretty remarkable that Ophelia says, “Th’expectancy and rose of the fair state” right here, right in front of the king who took that fair state from him. I mean, there aren’t a lot of references to what is, presumably, Hamlet’s true right to the throne and the fact that sweet, meek little Ophelia is one of them is really something. Especially with the king behind the arras. 
This vision of Hamlet is pretty flattering. He’s the glass of fashion? Truly? Do all the young men of Denmark wear what he’s wearing?

Mould of form? Nice. Sounds like he was made with a hot bod.

Th’observed of all observers. . .well – that just means everyone’s watching him, doesn’t it? I want it to mean that Hamlet is the keenest of observationists, that he doesn’t miss a trick. . .but the construction won’t let me really do that. 

What I am baffled by are the “The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword.” I thought, for a moment, I had it – thinking that the possessives were about the eye – that he has an eye that is all three of these things. But there is a comma there, after “scholar’s” (not that I trust a comma to tell me much but. . . for argument’s sake.. . .) Then I thought – well – is it the Courtier’s eye, the Soldier’s tongue, the scholar’s sword? That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, given that soldier’s are not generally known for their speech. If that were the case, wouldn’t it rather be, the courtier’s eye, the soldier’s sword, the scholar’s tongue? Or is this construction as disoriented as Ophelia is after dealing with Hamlet?

It is a rather curious construction, in any case, and not one I’ve noticed elsewhere. Lists? Sure. All the time. Lists that seem to shake out of order? Not so much. 

O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!

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My first few years as a teenager featured many visits to the youth mental hospital, where various friends had checked in.

So many of them, smarter than the rest of us. So many minds, sharp as tacks, quick as a trigger. It was hard to imagine that something was wrong with their remarkable brains.

It’s funny that we call it mental health when it is often the emotions that have run out of control. In the environment that many of those noble minds grew up, their emotional volatility was the only sane response.
There was a sense, then, that the noble minds walking the halls of Charter Hospital were the best, the brightest – the most sane in an insane world. They were non-conformists. They were the kind that had mohawks before mohawks were seen on socially acceptable public figures. They had mohawks when mohawks still signaled punk and still signaled, “Fuck you, everyone.”
Some of those grew up to become lawyers and college professors and army officers (I’m not kidding) but we lost some of those noble minds along the way, too.
One of them, one who never went to the hospital, who kept all of his quickfire musings close, who didn’t act out so much as act in, well, we lost him later. We lost him when we thought he was all settled in with wife and child and fancy job.
And his was one of the noblest.