HORATIO       You will lose, my lord.

HAMLET         I do not think so. Since he went into France I have been in continual practice. I shall win at the odds. Thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart – but it is no matter.

HORATIO       Nay, good my lord –

HAMLET         It is but foolery, but it is such a kind of gaingiving as would perhaps trouble a woman.           (5.2.187-194)

There can be a beat, a couple of beats, before Horatio speaks, as he tries to find the most straightforward way of putting this when he perhaps can’t explain why. You will lose, my lord. It’s obvious, isn’t it? we both know it? Hamlet’s carrying on, almost helplessly: I do not think so, his monosyllables matching his friend’s. Since he went into France I have been in continual practice—this might be said ironically, seeing as he’s never been seen to pick up a foil (although a production might remedy this, make him seem more active and athletic prior to this moment, rather than the sedentary, skulking scholar). No, really, I have, every day, training hard. You just haven’t seen me, my friend… (They both know that Hamlet isn’t just talking about his physical fitness, his skill with the foil.) A reconsideration: I shall win at the odds. I can do enough to win the bet, even if I take the odd hit along the way. Probably. Another pause. And yet. And yet. Thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart – but it is no matter. Not feeling great about it, though? Apprehensive, at the least—actually, impending doom’s more like it. Cold, crushing, numb. Never mind, though, eh? Nay, good my lord—Horatio tries to intervene; if you’re feeling like that, follow your instincts, get out of this, stop. But Hamlet pushes back, makes an effort, gets a grip, what am I like, it is but foolery, a momentary wobble, but it is such a kind of gaingiving as would perhaps trouble a woman. A little wobble, yes, that might make a GIRL give pause. Not me, obviously.

It’s striking that this whole exchange is in prose; it allows for pauses, for a kind of brokenness, exhaustion, resignation, or effortful self-deception. The pulse is faltering, the dependable, propulsive structures of beat and rhyme, while not wholly absent, are failing too.