[Uncovers the body of Polonius.]

HAMLET – Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell:

I took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune;

Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger.

– Leave wringing of your hands. Peace, sit you down

And let me wring your heart. For so I shall

If it be made of penetrable stuff,

If damned custom have not brazed it so

That it be proof and bulwark against sense.           (3.4.29-36)

The stage direction has to be editorial, but it’s clear: Hamlet pulls back the wall hanging or opens the wardrobe door or pulls Polonius out from under the bed, whatever; he addresses his next lines to the corpse: thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell; initially showing some compassion, if not contrition, in wretched, he then describes Polonius’s actions as rash, ill-considered (it’s a word that Gertrude has just applied to Hamlet himself), and then intruding; your own fault, he implies, for sticking your nose in. And fool, he’s always treated Polonius as a fool, an easy mark, a ready butt of clever jokes… I took thee for thy better. I thought you were the king; confirmation, then, that that’s what Hamlet thought as he stabbed. But take thy fortune; too late now, you’ve brought it on yourself. Bad luck. A bit more of the blame game: thou find’st to be too busy is some danger. Busy-bodies get what’s coming to them, better to mind your own. It’s a risky business getting involved.

But then he’s back to his mother, who understandably is upset, anxious, fearful: leave wringing of your hands, for goodness’ sake, calm down. Get a GRIP. It’s an implicit stage direction, but more than that, it’s impatience with her, a self-centred commitment to having the conversation that he wants to have with his mother, on his terms, and never mind the collateral damage, aka manslaughter. No, don’t wring your hands, but instead, peace—shut UP—sit you down, and let me wring your heart. Let me play on your heartstrings, tell you a terrible tale—but it’s more violent than that, more tense and intimate, Gertrude’s heart as a cloth that Hamlet will squeeze and twist, dripping tears? blood? He likes the conceit and develops it further: yes, I’ll wring your heart alright, for so I shall, if it be made of penetrable stuff—cloth, implicitly, like the arras he’s just pierced with his blade—if damned custom have not brazed it so that it be proof and bulwark against sense. If you’ve still got any compassion, if your heart hasn’t become hard and unfeeling, unyielding as brass (Richard II imagines the body, the head in particular as brass impregnable), if you’re still capable of any feeling at all, any emotion—any love for me, your son—then I’ll make you feel it now.