HAMLET                     O, I die, Horatio.

The potent poison quite o’ercrows my spirit,

I cannot live to hear the news from England,

But I do prophesy th’election lights

On Fortinbras: he has my dying voice.

So tell him with th’occurrents more and less

Which have solicited. – The rest is silence. [Dies.] (5.2.336-342)

But no chance for any elaboration on the news of Fortinbras and the ambassadors; all eyes must be on Hamlet, if indeed they have ever left him. It’s Horatio he speaks to, no one else, and he’s utterly categorical now: O, I die, Horatio. This really is it. O can be pain, but it’s also wonderment: finally, here it is, and now, and now, and now; let be. The potent poison quite o’ercrows my spirit—he can feel himself slipping away, even more, being vanquished, overcome. I cannot live to hear the news from England—even though it’s imminent—but I do prophesy th’election lights on Fortinbras. It’s an odd concern, but a statesmanlike one: everyone with an immediate claim to the throne will be dead, and so someone else will have to take charge. And yes, it could be Fortinbras, this Norwegian prince; he’s got a decent claim, people are likely to line up behind him, it’s an elective monarchy, but still: he has my dying voice. I’m backing Fortinbras, if anyone asks. He’d have my vote; my endorsing him, that’s almost my last words. So tell him with th’occurents more and less which have solicited: tell him what’s happened, explain why things have ended up like this… Hamlet’s language starts to slide into obscurity, the syntax and grammar slightly off, he can’t get to the end of the sentence—the effect of making one strain to hear even more, as if he’s speaking ever more faintly, struggling to get the words out. Which he is.

The rest is silence.

No more to be said, no more able to be said, nothing to be done. And after noise, speech, WORDS, nothing. Rest. Silence. Peace? Sleep? Silence, at least. And a (quibbling) rest at last.