Woodward Shakespeare Festival
2008 Season


Scene 1 - The "Nunnery" scene
Directing Resume
Scene 2 - The Play-within-a-Play
Scene 3 - The King's confession
Scene 4 - The "Closet" scene
Photos by John Sanchez
Additional photos by
Arlene and Dick Schulman
I hear him coming.  Let's withdraw, my lord.
To be or not to be, that is the question.

To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come...

When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin?
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns...
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all...
Soft you now!  The fair Ophelia...
I did love you once.
Get thee to a nunnery!
It hath made me mad!
Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool;
for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them.
I say we will have no more marriages...
Those that are married already - all but one -  shall live; the rest shall keep as they are.
O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!
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,
The observed of all observers, quite, quite down!
Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd go.
How now, Ophelia?
You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said;
We heard it all.
I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing.
Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue...
... but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I'd as lief the town crier spoke my lines.
... but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I'd as lief the town crier spoke my lines.
Dost thou hear?
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice
And could of men distinguish, her election
Hath seal'd thee for herself...
... Give me that man
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.
How fares our cousin Hamlet?
So many journeys may the sun and moon
Make us again count o'er ere love be done!
Full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round...
Since love our hearts and Hymen did our hands
Unite commutual in most sacred bands.
Wormwood, wormwood...
In second husband let me be accurst;
None wed the second but who kill'd the first.
What, frighted with false fire!
He poisons him i' the garden for's estate...
You shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago's wife.
So runs the world away!
Have you any further trade with us?
Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in the shape of a camel?
Now I could drink hot blood,
And do such bitter business as the day
Would quake to look at it.
O, my offence is rank it smells to heaven...
What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood...
Help angels!  Make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees...
A villain kills my father, and for that,
I, his sole son, do this same villain send to heaven.
O, this is hire and salary, not revenge.

You go not till I set you up a glass
Where you may see the inmost part of you.

Pray you be round with him.
Leave wringing your hands.  Peace, sit you down,
And let me wring your heart, for so I shall
If it be made of pentrable stuff.
How now!  A rat?  Dead, for a ducat, dead!
Have you eyes?
Look here, upon this picture, and on this,
the counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
O, shame where is thy blush?
What judgment would step from this to this?
Do you not come your tardy son to chide,
That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by
The important acting of your dread command?  O, say!
Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings,
You heavenly guards!  What would your gracious figure?
Do not forget!  This visitation
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.
Alas, how is't with you,
That you do bend your eye on vacancy
And with the incorporal air do hold discourse?
O, gentle son,
Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper
Sprinkle cool patience.  Whereon do you look?
Go not to my mine uncle's bed.
Assume a virtue if you have it not.
I essentially am not in madness,
But mad in craft.
Do you see nothing there?
This councellor
Is now most still, most secret and most grave,
Who was in life a foolish prating knave.
Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you.
Good night, mother.
Hamlet - Act I
Hamlet - Act II
Hamlet - Act IV
Hamlet - Act V