HAMLET                     Thou pray’st not well.

I prithee take thy fingers from my throat,

For, though I am not splenative rash,

Yet have I in me something dangerous

Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand.

CLAUDIUS      Pluck them asunder.

QUEEN                                   Hamlet! Hamlet!

LORD  Gentlemen!

HORATIO                    Good my lord, be quiet.

HAMLET         Why, I will fight with him upon this theme

Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

GERTRUDE     O my son, what theme?         (5.1.248-257)

Thou pray’st not well, Hamlet bites back, sarcastically, at Laertes’s furious the devil take thy soul, that’s not very nice and, also, good luck with that. Then, more sarcasm: I prithee take thy fingers from my throat, would you mind awfully if you stopped throttling me, old chap?—before he becomes deadly serious: for, though I am not splenative rash, I’m not hot-tempered at all, no, I’m cool, calm, collected, entirely in control but if you don’t let go of me this minute I won’t be answerable for my actions, don’t push me: yet have I in me something dangerous which let thy wisdom fear. DON’T piss me off, you’ll only regret it. Hold off thy hand: let go! back off! I mean it!

Hamlet and Laertes are apparently grappling—pluck them asunder, part them, get them OFF each other, Claudius orders (at least he’s not getting involved—and it suggests that there are some attendants here, although it could be the priest and Horatio at a pinch) and there’s at least one unnamed lord, to say, scandalised, Gentlemen! remember where you are, who’s here witnessing this unseemly display! Hamlet! Hamlet! Gertrude’s shocked, thrilled to see him, appalled at what he’s doing, full of grief for Ophelia, distraught that Hamlet’s finding out about her death like this—and most of all, stop it! Good my lord, be quiet, begs Horatio, calm down! Please! Hamlet’s defiant: why, I will fight with him upon this theme until my eyelids will no longer wag. On this matter, I’ll fight him to the death! (It’s a strikingly odd conceit, even by Hamlet’s standards.) O my son, what theme? What’s the matter, what’s the cause of your rage, that you’re prepared to fight to the death over? (She’s partly repeating Hamlet’s own flippant question to her on their last meeting, what’s the matter??) Shouting, shoving, interrupting—and in the middle, Ophelia’s corpse, an actor, playing dead.