HAMLET         Up sword, and know thou a more horrid hent

When he is drunk asleep or in his rage,

Or in th’incestuous pleasure of his bed,

At game a-swearing, or about some act

That has no relish of salvation in’t.

Then trip him that his heels may kick at heaven

And that his soul may be as damned and black

As hell whereto it goes. My mother stays;

This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. (Exit.)

CLAUDIUS      My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.

Words without thoughts never to heaven go. (Exit.)         (3.3.88-98)

Hamlet relishes his self-restraint as an act of imagined future cruelty, rather than mercy: up sword, put it away, and know thou a more horrid hent (an obscure word, but the general suggestion is, the sword can reappear later to do something properly violent, something horrific) when he, Claudius, is drunk asleep, or in his rage—kill him when he’s insensible with drink, or maddened by it—or in th’incestuous pleasure of his bed—yes, even more horrific thought, kill him when he’s in bed with my mother! ‘In bed’, that is! caught and killed in the actual act of incest! Or maybe, yeah, when he’s engaged in some less immoral but still questionable act, at game a-swearing, gambling, foul-mouthed—kill him when he’s doing anything, anything at all, that isn’t prayer, about some act that has no relish of salvation in’t. Then trip him that his heels may kick at heaven—overthrow him, cast him down (and the violence of the action, its surprise is suggested)—and that his soul may be as damned and black as hell whereto it goes. Send him to hell where he belongs, at the very moment when he’s most unrepentant, most stained with sin, most wholly damned. YES.

And after that spewing forth of a hatred that verges on profanity, Hamlet recollects himself and what he’s meant to be doing: my mother stays. Oh yes, that’s right, she’s waiting to see me. Better get a move on. But there’s a parting shot at his stepfather-uncle Claudius: this physic but prolongs thy sickly days. Pray all you like, but it’s not going to save you; you just get to live a bit longer. I’ve got your number. You’re on borrowed time.

Then the final twist as Claudius opens his eyes in desperation, perhaps stiffly gets to his feet: my words fly up, my thoughts remain below. I tried to pray, I said the words, but I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t mean it, couldn’t FEEL it. His intention has been lacking, and words without thoughts never to heaven go. He wasn’t praying at all… And that’s the end of the scene.