Adieu, Felicity!
2nd Runners Up | Season 7
Author: Melanie Alexander
Category: Poem

A Cento crafted from and dedicated entirely to Shakespeare’s Hamlet.
[A stage. Horatio kneels to the far right corner. He is surrounded by Fortinbras, a few courtiers and a few members of the Norwegian kingsguard. Hamlet’s head rests on his knees. Horatio will not touch him.]
 
Horatio:
‘Tis very cold; the wind is northerly.
Remember it, my lord?
I pray thee, wait upon him. This grave shall have a
Living monument.

There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will. That is most certain.
This is mere madness – For love of God, forbear him!
O, a pit of clay for to be made –
That thou dost lie in’t and say it is thine. ‘Tis for the dead, not for the quick.
For my part I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine. Cannot you tell that? Every fool can tell that.
Alas, good, my lord – those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft;
His silence will sit drooping.
How was this sealed? Is’t possible?
 Does it not, think thee, stand me now upon?

“Absent thee from felicity awhile
And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain to tell my story.”

O, what a rogue and pleasant slave am I! O God, God
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world! Heaven and earth,
Must I remember?

O my dear lord – Dost thou hear?
I beseech you, for the love of God, forbear him!

Come, this must be known which, being kept close might move
More grief to hide than hate to utter love.
Come. Mark it. This quarry cries on havoc –
Not from his mouth
Had it th’ ability of life;
And let me speak to th’ yet unknowing world
How these things came about. 
And from his mouth whose voice will draw no more,
There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be, ‘tis not to come. If it be not now, yet it will come.
Who does it then? His madness.

Say you? Nay, pray you, mark.

[He starts, as if awoken. He sings.]
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone.
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.
 
[He pauses, turns to the side and listens to the silence.]

O, ho! Lord, we know what we are but know not what we may be. How now, what noise is that?

[He resumes his singing as the courtiers exit the stage.]
They bore him bare-faced on the bier
And in his grave rained many a tear.
Fare you well, my dove-

[He stops. Looks around at the empty stage. The spotlight is on him. He looks up at it.]

Do you see this, O God?
 
But, since so jump upon this bloody question, I will do’t, my lord. I will do’t.
Thus wide I’ll ope my arms
And like the kind life-rendering pelican
Repast them with my blood.
– O, I could tell you –
But let it be. Ah ha! Come, some music!

[He starts singing again. Enter Osric with a shroud.]

And will ‘a not come again?
And will ‘a not come again?
No, no, he is dead,
Go to thy deathbed.
He never will come again.

Osric:
Alas, he’s mad! O, say –
[He is interuppted and cut off by the stage lights dimming. The shroud falls from his hands.]

Horatio:
Look, my lord, it comes
But do not go with it. No, by no means. Be ruled, you shall not go –

O day and night, but this is wondrous strange. O woe is me
T’have seen what I have seen, see what I see. Soft you now;
Pray you, mark.

[He sings.]
White his shroud as the mountain snow –
Larded all with sweet flowers
Which bewept to the ground did not go
With true-love showers.

[He pauses to look at the audience. There is nothing left of feeling on the stoic planes of his face.]

The time is out of joint; O, cursed spite
That ever I was born to set it right! That he’s mad ‘tis true, ‘tis true ‘tis pity,
And pity ‘tis ‘tis true: a foolish figure!
But farewell it, – for I will use no art –
I saw him once – ‘a was a goodly king.
But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

Th’ observed of all observers, quite, quite down.
Go to, I’ll no more on’t. It hath made me mad. Why should the poor be flattered?
In my heart’s core – ay, in my heart of heart –
As I do thee – Dost thou hear?
Good, my lord,
You would seem to know my stops, you would pluck out the heart of my mystery, you would sound me from my lowest note to my compass. And there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ.

[He sings.]
For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.

[Enter Fortinbras, the courtiers, with a Priest, for Hamlet’s funeral march. The spotlight moves towards them, leaving Horatio in darkness. He stares after them.]

But soft, but soft awhile. Who is this they follow? Why does the drum come hither?
And with such maimed rites?

[He stands aside, and sings quietly to himself.]
A pickaxe and a spade, a spade,
For and a shrouding-sheet,
O, a pit of clay for to be made
For such a guest is meet-

[A sob forces him to stop. He looks surprised by it, himself. His eyes are dry. From the funeral march, someone clears their throat.]

O God, Horatio;

“Absent thee from felicity awhile
And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain?”

Never believe it.

O, my dear Hamlet,
Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet Prince,
And flights of angels sing thee to – But, something too much of this:

[He turns to the front of the stage. Holds out his arms with a smile.]
What is it you would see?
If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.

[The silence stretches. Grows to teeter on the knife-edge of discomfort. He waits for it.]
Come, one for me;
Give me the cup.

[He takes the half-empty cup from Hamlet’s stiff fingers. He brings it to his lips. Lights out.]

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One Response

  1. Adieu, mental health!

    I’m not okay after reading this. Melanie, you deserve every bit of recognition and praise you receive (and more, actually!). I’m so so happy more and more people are getting the chance to know your work. All my best wishes, all my beautiful hopes I give to you. Love, K.

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