CLAUDIUS      And England, if my love thou hold’st at aught

As my great power thereof may give thee sense,

Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red

After the Danish sword, and thy free awe

Pays homage to us, thou mayst not coldly set

Our sovereign process, which imports at full

By letters congruing to that effect

The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England!

For like the hectic in my blood he rages

And thou must cure me. Till I know ’tis done,

Howe’er my haps my joys will ne’er begin. (Exit.) (4.3.56-66)

Claudius ends the scene not so much by flexing his muscles as baring his teeth, demonstrating his cunning, and his ruthlessneess: and England (he means the English king, but it sounds like an order to an entire nation), if my love thou hold’st at aught—if you have any regard for me at all, and if you know what’s good for you—as my great power thereof may give thee sense—you know I’m the one holding all the cards, who has the upper hand—since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red after the Danish sword. He’s literally saying, your wounds haven’t healed since we were last at war, have they? since the last time we gave you a bloody nose—and we can do it again, just like that—and thy free awe pays homage to us; you’re a vassal state, you owe Denmark duty, loyalty, service. You obey orders, no questions asked; thou mayst not coldly set our sovereign process. You’re not in a position to ignore or defy this command, which is coming right from the top; it’s my personal instruction, by letters congruing to that effect—it’s set down in writing, no room for ambiguity or misinterpretation—and what I’m ordering you to action is the present death of Hamlet. As soon as possible, please, immediately you receive my request. Thank you, that will be all: do it, England! (Not that you’ve got a choice, as I’ve just made perfectly clear.) For like the hectic in my blood he rages and thou must cure me: Claudius imagines himself as suffering from a fever, a disease that can only be cured by blood-letting, not his own blood, but Hamlet’s (although, as they are blood relations, there’s a kind of grim logic to it). Till I know ’tis done, howe’er my haps my joys will ne’er begin. No matter how well things are going for me, how lucky I seem to be—I won’t be able to enjoy my good fortune until I know for sure that he’s been—dealt with. Until then—glass half empty.